


State Of Love And Trust

by surfaces, Wintress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 50s au, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Bucky is an actual child who laughs at underpants, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Quill definitely has red thread and alien photos on his wall, Racism, Rough Kissing, Smut, Soft Stucky, Soldier Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform, Winnifred Barnes is 1950's America's answer to Molly Weasley, Zola and the great lemonade crisis of 1959, but eventually, fluffy fluffy fluff, much smut, not right away - Freeform, that's just how it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-10-10 03:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10427967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surfaces/pseuds/surfaces, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintress/pseuds/Wintress
Summary: It's 1959, and Steve Rogers is trying to get home to Brooklyn having missed his mothers funeral, but a broken-down bike strands him in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, the small town of Willow Creek opens both its arms and its hearts to a friend in need.





	1. "Ain't That a Shame"

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be told in the form of flashbacks and letter-writing. Letters will always be in italics at the beginning of the chapter, and flashbacks will always be in chronological order. Anything relating to present-day events will obviously be told in present tense, so keep your eyes out for these details and you'll get it! 
> 
> Due to the period and setting of this story, there WILL be instances of racism and homophobia.
> 
> Steve's flashbacks and letters will be written by moi, Surfaces, and Bucky's flashbacks and letters will be written by my beloved Wintress!
> 
> Tags will be updated as the story progresses, please be aware of them.

Steve sighs as the sound of an almighty clatter reverberates through his apartment. If it had been the first, or even the second time it had happened, that’d be fine. But this is the third time one of the boxes he thought he’d neatly stacked has come crashing down and spilled their guts all over the floor. He could tidy it up _again,_ he could go ape and burn the lot, or he could maybe have a drink and _breathe_ for five minutes. He picks his way over the detritus of his life to the kitchen, slapping his wallet onto the table before slowly sinking into a seat with a groan, remembering that he already packed up his kettle. Taking a deep breath, he opens his wallet and combs through the assortment of bills and receipts until he finds what he’s looking for, and instantly he feels calmer. Serene, almost.

The scrap of paper is small and yellow, not through age but because it was torn from a Yellow Pages directory. The town it’s from is hours away yet Steve has kept this scrap of paper on him for the past three months, ever since that time he broke down in the middle of nowhere on his way back to Brooklyn from Fort Bragg. Right after his mother died.

 

*******

The old pick-up’s suspension groaned as it bounced over the pot-holed road, and Steve gritted his teeth, trying not to panic about his bike riding loosely secured in the trucks bed. He wasn’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the guy who had offered him a ride to the nearest town after his bike broke down almost seemed to be aiming for the pot-holes, and Steve didn’t need any higher a repair bill. He had enough to worry him in that department,

Thankfully, they were in town now, and by the time Steve got out of the cabin the trucks owner had started rolling his bike down the ramp. He pressed a few dollar bills into the guys hand and thanked him for his help, managing a weak smile when the man gave him the money back and instead thanked Steve for his service. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to hearing that in the past tense, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it right now. He dragged his bike over to the side of the road and kicked out the stand before throwing his pack over his shoulder and heading off to find help.

The town was small, that much was apparent straight away. Walking to the nearest intersection, he could see the beginning and end of what he assumed was the main street from where he stood, stretching out no more than a mile in each direction. A few cars rattled down the street, but the town was otherwise quiet. He turned in circle, trying to decide which way to go first.

“Hey man, you alright?” A deep voice broke the eerie silence. “You lost?”

Steve twisted to look behind him. The voice came from down the street, where a young black man was wiping down the window of a store front. “Yeah, well, kinda!” He called back as he walked down to the man, who was regarding Steve with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. As he got closer, he could see the remnants of egg shells scattered on the ground under the window and the streaks of yellow across the glass, and the strangers glare suddenly made sense. He dropped his bag. “You got another cloth there? Looks like you could do with a hand.” He extended his own, “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Cautious, the man looked between Steve’s face and his outstretched hand a few times before shaking it firmly. “Sam. Sorry, uh – don’t see a lot of new faces around here. Where you from?” Sam pulled a rag from his back pocket and handed it to Steve before going back to scraping egg shells.

Steve pushed up his sleeves and set to work. “Brooklyn, born and bred.”

“Brooklyn? What the hell you doin’ down here then? Get tired of the big city, come to rough it a bit?”

“I wish,” Steve pushed his hair off his forehead with the back of wrist before going back to scrubbing a particularly stubborn patch of dried egg yolk. It felt layered on, like an area had been missed last time someone had to wash egg off this window. Anger burned low in his gut; Steve had no time for bigotry. He fought for his country. His _entire_ country. “Just passing through from Fort Bragg. My bike broke down on the highway and I was lucky to get a ride as far as here. Was hoping there might be someone around that can take a look at her.”

Sam looked at him, his brown eyes curious. “Fort Bragg, huh? Should I be thanking you for your service?” Steve glanced at him, somewhat relieved that Sam seemed to innately understand how tired Steve was of the line. He appreciated it but never really felt like he deserved it.

In lieu of an answer, Steve just smiled. “I didn’t do it for the thanks.”

Throwing the wash cloth into the bucket of soapy water, Sam dried his hands on his pants and carried everything inside the store. Steve waited in the doorway, looking around the small room. “This your place?”

There was a pause before Sam answered. “My pop’s. Old man doesn’t keep well these days, so might as well be mine”. He stepped outside with Steve and locked the door, a grave look crossing his face when he saw the egg shells on the ground. “Only damn general store in town and folks still do this. Shit, they probably bought the eggs from here in the first place!” He gave Steve a resigned smile. “Come on, I know a guy who’ll fix your bike up good.”

 

***

The town of Willow Creek was so small Steve could probably have walked from one end to the other in twenty minutes, but he and Sam ambled along, filling each other in on the basics of their lives. Sam told Steve about the town and some of its residents, and Steve breathed in the heady scent of trees and flowers. He’d missed nature, or at least _enjoyable_ nature, when he could relax and stroll instead of being buried in mud in the middle of a desolate field. But still he felt that strange pull to the battlefield; an invisible tether than connected him to a world of hate and fear and pain, a world no one should _want_ to be part of, but Steve had become so immersed in it that now he felt like he’d been cast adrift, and now his life lacked a certain amount of purpose.

As they neared the auto shop, Steve could hear a gravelly voice singing along with a rattly transistor radio, and he felt his heart clench. The song, “Teenager in Love” by Dion and The Belmonts, may not have been out long but it had wormed its way into Steve’s heart, reminding him of summer nights in Brooklyn long before the war, when his biggest worry had been competing with other fellas in his neighborhood to take Dottie Bergmann to the dance hall on Saturday night. They turned into the wide, open gate of the garage, and Steve could still hear the singing though he couldn’t see where it was coming from.

Sam cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hey Buck! Got you that leggy blonde I promised you for our next drive-in date!” Steve sighed good-naturedly and rolled his eyes. If he’d heard one joke, he’d heard them all. Military banter wasn’t exactly a font of comedic content.

An overall-clad pair of legs carrying a huge white-wall tyre came into view from around the corner, and Steve’s breath caught in his throat when the tyre was put down and the mechanic came into view. His overall sleeves were tied low on his slim hips, torso covered by a tank-top that probably used to be white but was now wall to wall grease stains from the wearer wiping his hands, hands that he was now running through thick brown hair. An image of those hands sliding over Steve’s abs flashed unbidden into his mind, and he shook his head to dislodge it. The man had crossed the room to turn down the radio and was now smirking at him, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Bucky, pleased t’ meetcha,” Steve shook his hand, painfully aware of how clammy his palms had become. “So, Sam, you hollered? What can I do for you?”

Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Not me, man. My buddy Steve here, his bike crapped out on the highway, we was hopin’ you could take a looksee? It’s down by my pop’s store.”

“I sure could, lead the way.” The three walked back through town, faster than on the way there. Steve felt hot, like he wanted to get all of this done as fast as possible. Not just so he could get on with his journey and tasks ahead, but so he didn’t have to spend more time in Bucky’s company than necessary. He didn’t have time for the way he was feeling right now…

Bucky let out a loud wolf-whistle when he saw Steve’s bike. “Ain’t she a dolly! Harley Davidson, if I’m not mistaken.” He circled the bike, squatting low to look at the pipes and engine. “So what happened? She ain’t creamed and neither are you so I’m assumin’ you didn’t wipe out.”

Steve shook his head. “Honestly? I’ve got no idea. Was riding along fine, there was a bang, and she just slowed till she stopped. Now she wont start again.”

“Right. Well in that case let’s get her back to the shop so I can take a peek at her undercarriage.” Bucky grinned at Steve and gave him a lewd wink, and under his shirt Steve could feel his skin growing hotter by the minute,

He sat and listened to Sam and Bucky exchange jokes, threats, and ribald humour, enjoying being around laughter again, taking his fair share of the verbal punches. An hour later, Steve was ready to scream. Bucky’s verdict wasn’t pleasant. Something on his bike had blown and it needed a new one, and as chance would have it Bucky didn’t have that specific part in stock. A five minute walk to the nearest payphone and the part was ordered, but it’d be at least two days before it arrived. Bucky hung up the phone, andthe three men stood at the payphone, unsure how to proceed.

“Right now, I think the first thing I need is a coffee, or at least something with sugar.” Steve pressed his fingers against his eyes. He’d been awake a ridiculously long time and the creeping strain of fatigue was starting to set in.

“You want Nat and Clint’s in that case. This way, I could do with a cup myself.” Sam made to lead the way, Steve following. Bucky was bringing up the rear, before he suddenly stopped and ran back to the payphone.

“Just a sec, guys! Be right there.” Steve’s brow creased as he watched. Bucky ran into the phone box, and Steve couldn’t quite see what he was doing. As he jogged back to Steve and Sam though, Steve could see he’d torn something out of the Yellow Pages directory in the box. He grinned at Steve as he folded the small square carefully and tucked it into Steve’s shirt pocket, patting his chest.

“There, so you can find me.” He gave Steve another wink before walking on to catch up with Sam. Steve lightly touched his shirt where Bucky had touched him, and his stomach knotted itself up again.

 _T_ _wo days, Steve,_ he told himself. _You can handle two days._

 

 


	2. "Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the notes at the beginning of chapter one if you experience any confusion with the timeline of this story.
> 
> Letter by Surfaces, chapter by Wintress

_Dear Bucky,_

_Sorry it’s taken me so long to write this, things have been nuts since I got back. It’s been ages since Ma died and people are still trying to give me casseroles!_

_I just wanted to say thanks for everything. I was a stranger and you just opened your arms to me, and I didn’t realise I needed it as much as I did until then. All of you, Sam, Nat, Clint, you all took me in and made me feel...I don’t know. Almost whole again? Sorry, I know that probably sounds really lame, but it’s true. Like that first day I got in town, and you guys took me to the diner? Best cheeseburger I ever had, and I’m from New York, I know cheeseburgers! So yeah, just things like that, just wanted to say thank you for being so kind._

_Anyway, how are things with you? How’s the shop doing? Does Mrs Shanks car need fixed again yet?_

_Please don’t feel like you have to reply, I just had to send a note to say thank you. My ma would’ve wanted me to! Though I'd love to hear from you if you've got the time!_

 

_Steve_

 

 ***

 The spring air was sweet, the tiny town of Willow Creek was reaching its peak lunchtime bustle, and Bucky was feeling pretty good. He’d had a quiet morning, so he’d stuck on his battered transistor radio and belted out the charts while he worked on his old Hudson Hornet. He didn’t think his day could get much better, and then _he_ turned up.

When Sam had shouted through the auto shop doors that he’d brought him a leggy blonde, Bucky had groaned internally and schooled his face into a polite smile. As soon as he dropped the tyre in the pile and caught sight of the tall, muscular man behind Sam, he’d felt a surge in his chest and couldn’t stop his face from breaking out into a huge grin. _Leggy blonde, indeed!_ Bucky was one of those people who could flirt with anything that had a heartbeat, and somehow never make them feel uncomfortable. He had cringed a little inside when he remembered the joke Sam had made, and how he’d waited for this _Steve_ to get offended and cry outrage, but he’d just rolled his eyes good naturedly, as if jibes like that were old hat to him now. The self-depreciating laugh that Steve gave made Bucky’s stomach rumble in a way he didn’t dare acknowledge.

“Y’ever had a malt shake, Steve?” Bucky asked, kicking a wayward rock from their path. They were walking through the little town to Clint’s, a diner owned by his friends. Really it was Clint’s wife Nat who ran the show, but she was happy to wait tables and let Clint play manager, stepping in whenever he almost set the kitchen alight – a worryingly regular occurrence.

“Sure,” Steve shrugged. Bucky eyed him; the guy was a closed book. Gave nothing away.

Sam interrupted Bucky as they made it to the diner. “Well, you ain’t never had a malt shake like Clint’s. Can taste it for hours afterwards – he swears by secret ingredient, but we all know he just grates Baby Ruth bars in ‘em.” Bucky grinned, jutting his chin up with satisfaction when Steve gave him a small smile in return.

Bucky had known he’d preferred boys for as long as he could remember. He knew the risks; the beatings, the discrimination, the ugly side of society that people hid behind their perfectly manicured lawns and freshly baked bread and garden gnomes. Bucky was all too aware of how dangerous it was to be anything less than what people thought made a man a _real man_ , so he played along. He chased skirts. He spun dames around the dance halls. He let them steal kisses outside their mother’s front door in the evening when he took them home. He’d gotten pretty good at acting over the years – a regular Clarke Gable. No one expected Bucky’s comments to hold any weight, and they certainly didn’t expect them to be recited to the men he met at the underground bars in the city, dripping with heat and working their magic when they slipped out the side door. No, he knew the risks all too well, but sometimes it was worth chancing them.

All of which is why he couldn’t help himself when it came to Steve. He studied him from the corner of his eye through laughs and jibes with Sam, and was intrigued. Steve could easily have been imposing; he was tall, with impossibly broad shoulders atop a solid torso and long, thick legs. For some reason though, he almost shrunk when he wasn’t moving, like he was trying to roll in on himself and become invisible. It made Bucky want to know more – how his mind worked, what he loved and loathed, if he liked the feeling of calloused fingers tracing the planes of his back like it was a map home...

So maybe he’d fudged the details a little bit to keep him in town a little longer; maybe he’d been taken aback at the state of Steve’s Harley. Maybe it was a miracle it was even running at all, what with all the different parts welded on and jammed in place to make a Frankenstein’s monster of a bike. Maybe he was being a little selfish, a little sneaky. Maybe, Bucky reasoned to himself, it would pay off.

A bell tinkled above them when Sam pushed the door open. The tantalising aroma of burgers sizzling on the grill floated around them, and rock and roll tunes flowed from the old jukebox in the corner. Clint poked his head through the kitchen port when he heard them. beaming.

“Hey! Look who came outta his cave!” He yelled, sandy hair stuck in all directions. “What’d it take you to drag him out, Sammy boy?”

“You know Count Dracula, needs his daily dose of milkshakes to keep him goin’ – oh, and the new guy got him a nice Harley to work on too!,” Sam jerked his head towards Steve as they sat down in their usual booth in the corner. Bucky rolled his eyes and flipped Clint the bird while he laughed, watching Steve stretch easily over the counter to shake Clint’s hand. Bucky listened to the worn leather of Steve’s jacket creak, watching the stretch of his broad shoulders under the fabric. It made Steve seem strong, powerful, and Bucky’s mind started to contemplate just how strong Steve might be.

“Welcome to town, new guy. Got a name?”

“Steve. Steve Rogers,”

“Well Steve, take a seat with the fellas, Nat’s running some errands just now so I’ll whip up some shakes all round.” Clint returned to his kitchen and Steve tugged his jacket off before sliding into the booth beside Bucky. Bucky scooted up to give him space and stretched his arms easily across the back of the red leather seat, letting his gaze roam over Steve’s biceps. God, he was being ridiculous. He cleared his throat.

“So what brought you up our way, huh?” He asked. Steve leaned forward, hunching his shoulders in and clasping his hands on the table.

“Just got some family business to take care of.” Steve cleared his throat, and Bucky couldn’t help but lean in a little. “As if things couldn’t get worse, my bike broke down on my way back from North Carolina.” He chuckled self-consciously, but a current of honesty ran through it.

“North Carolina?” Bucky asked. “You didn’t come from Fort Bragg, did you?”

“Emm yeah. Yeah I did.” Steve’s brow furrowed a little.

“No way – you’re military? Thank you for –”

“Ah, please, don’t say it,” Steve smiled weakly, interrupting Bucky. “I kind of want to leave that back there for now.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah we already did all that.”

“Well say no more,” Bucky grinned, clapping his shoulder. “For now, milkshakes. Exhaust pipes. And I guess we gotta find you somewhere to stay, huh?”

“Oh jeez, I didn’t even think about that,” Steve groaned just as Clint appeared over their shoulder, setting a tray of three overloaded milkshakes topped with whipped cream and a raspberry.

“The hell is this man?” Sam said dramatically, flicking his raspberry at Clint who adeptly caught it in his mouth.

“We ran outta cherries – I told you Nat was running errands!” Clint called as he walked backwards to the kitchen, bumping a chair with his hip and accidentally spitting pink raspberry juice down his apron.

“You’re a pig, Barton,” Sam yelled back, tucking into his shake. Bucky watched Steve stir it slowly and take a sip. His blue eyes widened.

“This is amazing,” Steve smiled. “I haven’t had a decent shake since I was a kid,”

“Told you, they’re the best,” Sam grinned. “Anyway, back to you, new guy. We gotta find you somewhere to stay – can’t have you wanderin’ around town like some kinda vagrant.”

“Yeah – is there any inns, or halfway houses?”

“Sure. Old man Zola runs one in the middle of town, that big red building we saw on the way in? We’ll head over once we finish up here –”

Bucky tuned them out while he leaned over the back of Steve to fiddle with the jukebox. The man carried a weight on those shoulders of his, and as soon as he’d mentioned serving in the military Bucky understood. The burdens of war weren’t light by any means, and he fully intended to break through Steve’s. Even if it meant making more of a fool of himself than usual. He finally found the song he was looking for and sat back, folding his arms in satisfaction.

“Um…why are you looking at me like that?” Steve asked. The song kicked in and he groaned, a grin escaping despite himself. “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” played chirpily on beside them, and Sam let out a snicker.

“Hey, every hero’s gotta have a theme tune – figure this one suits you just fine!” Bucky laughed, feeling a sharp jab somewhere in his chest when Steve chuckled back, his face rising in a blush and his smile truly meeting his eyes. Bucky sipped his milkshake, content to let Sam and Steve shoot the shit, enjoying the timbre of his voice with the midday sun warming the back of his neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so Wintress and I are LIVING for the music we get to listen to for research! We're both big fans in general but y'know, any excuse! Also we're working on including the artwork for the letters our boys are sending each other, so make sure you check back soon to see if we've got that sorted!
> 
> As usual, if you have any questions, comments or concerns, feel free to contact me!


	3. "Memories Are Made Of This"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the notes at the beginning of chapter one if you experience any confusion with the timeline of this story.
> 
> Letter by Wintress, chapter by Surfaces

_August 10 th 1959_

_Hey pal,_

_How are you keepin? I’m sorry, it feels like I start all my letters that way. It’s been real quiet round here, not much happenin, can’t say I have much to report back on. Tony almost blew up the gas pump again, but he does that near enough every month so it ain’t exactly headline news. Clint and Nat were asking after you the other day – it was Clint’s birthday so we all stayed behind in the diner after hours and had some beers and some food, I had a triple chocolate shake and it reminded me of you._

_Becca and Tommy are down visitin with the kids just now. There’s three of em and I’ll be damned if I can remember which one is which – they’re tearin around the yard and trampling the flower beds but Ma’s as happy as a clam. There ain’t much room here so they’re staying over at Zola’s half-way house. He’s a hell of a lot more polite to them than he is to anyone else, but not as nice as he was to you – I’m still convinced he thought you believed he was a Nazi and were gonna get him deported back to Switzerland. Man, he was so jumpy when he took you in! Remember how he offered us lemonade and when you mentioned you were a Captain he dropped the tray and spilled it all over his doilies? I laughed so hard at that! Not as hard as when your knapsack tore and scattered your underpants all down the stairs…man, I’d pay to have that on film reel!_

_Anyway, enough laughin at your expense bud, I was so glad to hear from you. I keep worryin you’re gonna get bored of me and I’ll never hear from you again. I’ve gotta go round up the rugrats, I said I’d take em to the diner for maltshakes and banana splits. I replied to your letter as soon as Bruce delivered it and now I got cramp in my hand so I think I deserve a treat too._

_You’d better ~~appresh~~   ~~aprec~~  reply to this Steve I swear, this cramp hurts, it’s my good wrenchin hand!_

_(And yeah I made a jerk off joke, what you gonna do punk?)_

_Bucky_

 

*******

 

“C’mon Stevie-boy, it was funny!”

“You didn’t have to fall over laughing though!” Steve looked over at Bucky and his wide grin and tried to make his own weak smile seem a bit more convincing. It really wasn’t Bucky’s fault, he was just so on edge after what had happened just a short while previously.

Bucky had taken Steve over to Zola’s boarding house, and the uptight Swiss had looked Steve up and down through his little round glasses like he was assessing him, somehow managing to look down his nose at the two men despite being much shorter than them. It made him look a little like a rather sanctimonious owl. The little man seemed to be a bundle of fretfulness, his voice wavering as he invited them to sit in the parlor while he asked rather personal questions regarding Steve’s character. It turned out to be a mistake to tell him that Steve was a Captain while in the army; for some reason it gave him an awful fright, and he spilled the glasses of fresh lemonade over the crisp white doilies. Steve tried his hardest to help but the man just shooed him away, glaring at Bucky howling with laughter in his seat. After telling Steve all the rules of the house, he begrudgingly handed him a key and told him where to find his room before disappearing into the recesses of the building. Steve had looked at Bucky, features creased in confusion, and Bucky had just chuckled and said he’d explain later.

“Looking forward to it.” Steve had muttered, bending down to hike his bag onto his shoulder. He got halfway up the steep flight of steps before he had to put it back down to readjust, but this time when he swung it onto his shoulder, there was an almighty ripping sound as the strap divorced itself from the rest of the fabric, splitting the belly of the bag open and sending the contents flying.

Clothes floated through the air like huge confetti, and Steve turned round with a horrified expression to see Bucky standing a few steps below him, a pristine white pair of briefs draped over one eye. He stared up at Steve with a small, calm smile on his lips, but Steve could see his nostrils twitching, swiftly joined by his bottom lip, and less than a minute later Bucky was helpless with laughter. Steve had felt his lips curve, but from the corner of his eye he noticed his medals had spilled from his bag along with his clothes. Panic had gripped him, and he tried to scoop them up and tuck them away before Bucky noticed. No such luck, but Bucky seemed to sense Steve’s reticence, and he handed them to him wordlessly.

Belongings all accounted for and moved into the small but perfectly serviceable room, the two men now strolled through the town, Bucky still chuckling to himself. Steve was amazed that Bucky was still around, figuring he’d have gone back to his shop or just on with his own life once he’d shown Steve to the guest house. Instead, he’d stood in the doorway and asked Steve if he maybe wanted to go get a beer. Steve hesitated, not sure if Bucky was just trying to be polite, but looking at him, he seemed closer to nervous, shy. The earnest look in his eyes made Steve’s heart thump a little bit faster, and he accepted the invitation with a smile.

“So is Sam gonna be able to have a drink with us, or…?” Steve trailed off and steeled himself for Bucky’s answer; it was a horrible question, but he had to ask; you never knew what kind of fucked up laws little towns had in place, especially once you were out of the deep south, and he was tired of it. Tired of a world that hated and feared people for something as simple as the color of their skin, or their race or religion.

Bucky was smiling though, a little lopsided grin that made him look rakish and smug. “He sure can, my man. There’s a few guys that try to start trouble when they’re liquored up, but we just ignore ‘em. You’d be best doin’ the same if they show their ugly mugs at Quill’s, they usually get bored after a while, but they can be pretty handy with their fists when they’re in the mood.” Bucky rubbed his jaw absent-mindedly, and Steve wondered if it was just itchy, or had Bucky been on the receiving end? A tremor of anger made his hands twitch. Bucky was still smiling though as he winked at Steve, “I don’t want them denting your do.”

Steve thanked the powers that be for the twilight shade hiding his blush.

 

*******

Quill’s wasn’t exactly hopping, but Steve was quite thankful for that. He’d had quite enough excitement for one day and he just wanted a beer and some peace. Sam was already there, propping up the bar and laughing with a tall, stubbly brunette. As soon as he saw Bucky enter the bar he broke off the conversation, coming over where he and Bucky gave each other a complicated handshake.

“Quill, this is Steve. He’s new in town, so at least let him sit down before you start with your storytelling, alright?” Bucky slid onto the stool beside Sam as Quill pretended to be outraged. Gasping with his hand on his chest, he mimed being shot, the jelly rolls in his hair wobbling with the motion.

“You wound me, man. Why you gotta be so harsh? Anyway, they ain’t stories, the-”

Quill was cut off by Bucky and Sam shouting _BLAH BLAH BLAH_ repeatedly until he closed his mouth and turned to Steve, who had propped himself on the stool next to Bucky. He bumped Bucky’s hip as he sat down, jerking a little as the contact sent a jolt down the insides of his thighs. He covered it up by thrusting his hand towards Quill, who shook it warmly. Though he had a feeling it wouldn’t last, everyone he’d met in this town so far seemed nice and it made a change to be around easy laughter and friendly taunting instead of testosterone-fuelled mockery, which grew dull early on in his military career.

“Steve Rogers, new in town.”

“Peter Quill, only one dumb enough to run a bar around here, and also part-time town drunk.”

Bucky piped up from beside Steve. “You forgot ‘friendly neighborhood conspiracy theorist’!”

Rolling his eyes, Quill wandered to the pumps and started pulling them each a glass of beer. “I keep telling you man, it ain’t a conspiracy. That thing really crashed! Little grey men, spaceships, government’s covering all of it up! I swear, if I had a spare two days I’d drive right down there and see it for myself...”

Steve started to zone out a little watching Quill talk. He was certainly enthusiastic about his interest, Steve would give him that. How he apparently knew so much about the Roswell Incident was a mystery to Steve; even with his position in the military, he hadn’t heard much about it except that it wasn’t the big deal some folk, like Quill, made it out to be. He was fascinating to watch though. His enthusiasm was contagious and Steve found himself just enjoying how excited Quill seemed to be to have a fresh audience, even if he didn’t have a clue what the man was talking about. Sam and Bucky were chatting amongst themselves, and all Steve caught was Bucky asking Sam to move his seat a little, which Sam refused to do.

The sensation of Bucky fidgeting broke Steve out of his trance, and he shook his head as if clearing early morning cobwebs.

Sam leaned over and waved his hand in the space between Steve and Quill. “Hey, hey, Earth to Space Cowboy. Time to come back down, give the man a chance to have a drink.”

The whole group laughed out loud at that, and from there they settled down as comfortable little assembly for a time. Customers came and went, always welcomed with laughter and sent off with a hearty handshake from the charming Quill. Steve was starting to see the attraction of small-town life; everyone knew everyone, so everyone know who was the good kind, and who was the bad kind of person. It probably wasn’t all white picket fences and pretty dames making Martinis for their husbands coming home from work, but it had it’s plus points over Brooklyn and the army. It was quiet, clean, seemed safe...it felt like somewhere that could be home. Now that his Ma was dead, Steve wasn’t even sure he _had_ a home any more. A house, sure, but a building isn’t all that makes home _home._

It was obviously too much to hope that the peace would last.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so first things first, we are SO SO sorry that this chapter took so long! Real life got in the way, and while we're sure you understand, it doesn't mean we enjoy disappointing people! Hopefully you'll accept our apologies in the form of this chapter!
> 
> Secondly, stay tuned to find out what's about to disturb the peace in Willow Creek...
> 
> As usual, if you have any questions, comments or concerns, feel free to contact me!


	4. "In The Still Of The Night"

_August 22 nd 1959_

 

_Dear Bucky,_

_Did I ever mention to you how much I hate painting? I do, I hate painting. I shoulda told you when we were painting your Ma’s fence, but what can I say? You suckered me in! I knew I shouldn’ta listened to you, but you’ve got a silver tongue on you man. Between trying to paint this house and how hot it is, I’m thinking of just upping sticks and moving to Alaska. I’ll find work on a fishing boat and grow a beard and just live my life in splendid cold isolation. Nah, that sounds too much like hard work actually, think I’ll just open another window._

_Bet it’s hot as hell back in your neck of the woods. Not like anyone could tell looking at you, you always look cold as ice even when everyone else is melting! I miss just lazing about with you in your Ma’s backyard while we were painting the fence. She makes the best lemonade. Miss the smell of the flowers and trees too, Brooklyn just smells of exhaust fumes and sweat, though all I can smell right now is the smell of this damn paint._

_Speakin of which, I’d better get back to it. Give your Ma my love and tell the guys (including Nat) that I’m asking for them._

_Yours,_

 

_Steve_

 

*******

With one last turn of the wheel crank and a high screech, the old Ford wagon lowered to the floor in Bucky’s autoshop. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and rested back on his haunches, grimacing when he realised he’d spread a spot of grease across his face. Dinah Washington trilled out “What a Diff’rence A Day Makes” on his little radio, and he stood with a grunt to switch it off and wipe his hands properly on his hankerchief; Mrs Shanks was used to him leaving smudges of motor oil whenever he dropped her car off, but he didn’t want to leave the car coated in grease.

It was hitting late afternoon, and he’d spent the better part of the day fixing the axle on Mrs Shanks’ ancient car. He still had errands to run, groceries to pick up now his fridge was becoming scarce, and he’d promised his Ma he’d have her fence painted by the weekend. All he really wanted to do though, was to invite Steve back to Quill’s and drink and laugh the night away.

He unzipped his overalls, shrugged them off, and edged past Steve’s bike propped up in the back to wash his hands. He blushed a little as he scrubbed and got lost in his thoughts: Sam had cottoned onto his little crush real quick, and the other night in the bar he’d asked him to shift his seat over only to be met with a wry smirk from his friend.

“No.” Sam had said simply. Bucky had reddened, an unspoken conversation passing between them with a frustrated glare from Bucky and a cheeky flash of teeth from Sam. They’d been friends for so long that it only took a few looks to speak every word they wanted to say, and at times like that Bucky cursed Sam’s perceptiveness. Bucky hadn’t needed to say “Move over so I’m not so close to Steve, he’s killin’ me here, look at those fuckin’ arms man”, just like Sam hadn’t needed to reply “Nah I’ll just stay right here, watchin’ you squirm is just too good!” Either Bucky was too obviously keen on Steve or he’d just known that asshole Sam for too long; probably a mix of both, he thought to himself as he bundled into the car and started it up. The engine sputtered and groaned to life, and he patted the dashboard affectionately.

It took less than ten minutes to reach town, Bucky shaking his head every so often to chase thoughts of Steve from his head. It didn’t help much when he dropped the car off to Mrs Shanks, who gushed her thanks by gripping his hand and pinching his chin, and he almost barged right into the man himself when he walked towards the Main Street.

“Jeez – Steve!” Bucky stumbled, and refused to think about how warm Steve’s hands were as they gripped his forearms to steady him. Thankfully the afternoon sunshine was beating down on them, and he hoped he could pass the heat in his face from that.

“Easy there Buck,” Steve chuckled, righting the knapsack on his shoulder as they broke apart. “You in a hurry or something, pal?”

“Nah, I just dropped off a car,” Bucky thumbed over his shoulder, and faked a shudder. “Mrs Shanks is real nice, don’t get me wrong, but the woman’s like an octopus, she’s gotta have her hands all over you when she’s talkin’! Where you off to?” He nodded toward Steve’s patched-up pack, and Steve sighed.

“Trying to find the laundromat – I don’t trust Zola, he mentioned something about a wringer with this creepy look in his eye and I couldn’t figure out if he meant putting my underpants through it or me.” An idea popped into Bucky’s head then, and his motormouth kicked into gear before his brain could tell him to quit it.

“There ain’t one in town, but my Ma’s got one and I’m on my way to her place to help with a few odd jobs if you wanna chum along?” He tried to sound nonchalant, but a little sliver of hope crept into his voice all the same.

“You’re sure she won’t mind?” Steve brightened up considerably, his usual small smile widening into a sweet, honest grin. Bucky didn’t quite trust himself to speak without squeaking, so he gave a quick nod and couldn’t help but stretch his own lips into a smile in return. “Aw Bucky, thanks – that helps out a lot –“

“Psh, don’t worry about it,” Bucky waved him off and jerked his head towards the dirt road beside the grocery store, signalling Steve to follow him as he headed off. “She’ll just be glad her fence is finally gettin’ painted, I’ve been meanin’ to get around to it forever.”

They chatted and joked as they made their way into the small tree-lined patch of houses that made up Willow Creek’s version of suburbia. Bucky felt a fleeting worry that he was underdressed in his stained vest and old Levis, then tried to reassure himself that he wasn’t exactly on a date or taking Steve home, they were just going to his Ma’s to paint the fence. That was all. He still shoved his hands deep into his pockets and tried not to rake his eyes over Steve while they walked, all the same. Steve had this way of becoming more animated when they were alone; he talked with his hands and mimicked voices, yet Bucky couldn’t help but feel he was still holding back and closing himself off, using humour to mask whatever was underneath.

Before long they reached the huge willow tree in front of Bucky’s childhood home. Bucky leaned against the gnarled, warped trunk of the tree to watch Steve catch up. His blue eyes widened as he took in the grand old wooden colonial house, the huge yard and the rainbow splatter of flowers around the perimeter that were his Ma’s pride and joy. The small rounded fence and gate that closed off the back yard peeped around the side of the pale blue peeling paint of the house, and flowers sprung and dripped from little boxes hung over every surface his Ma could find. Steve’s pink mouth fell agape in a small ‘O’, and Bucky would have found his expression hilarious and ribbed him for it…if he didn’t feel there was something almost sad behind it.

“You feel like catchin’ flies there, Steve?” Bucky joked, kicking off the old tree and joining him to stand at the end of the stone path. Steve ripped his eyes away from the house and met Bucky’s gaze, shutting his mouth with an audible click.

“S-sorry, it’s…it’s just so _green_. This is your Ma’s house?” He said haltingly, and Bucky realised Steve would have spent the better part of his adult years on a muddy army base, with only a palette of greys and browns to appease the eye. He dared himself to nudge Steve’s ribs gently with his elbow and cocked a little half smile Steve’s way.

“Yup. S’where I grew up – I’d tell you the house’s history, how it was built, yadda yadda yadda – but Ma will yap the ears off you once we get inside, so excuse me if we skip the grand tour!” Bucky joked, and Steve grinned in reply. He was definitely a man of little words, Bucky thought to himself, but _man_ if he ain’t dishing out smiles like candy bars.

As predicted, the second Bucky let Steve through the back gate and clattered it closed behind him, his Ma poked her head up from the flowerbeds, where she was elbow deep in planting purple begonias. Her curly brown hair bobbed as she pulled herself up and dusted her hands off, wandering towards Bucky with open arms.

“James! Sweetheart, you finally decided to visit your old Ma, huh?” Winnifred called, and Bucky wrapped his arm around her tiny figure.

“Aw, c’mon, I was over at the weekend for dinner,” He mock-complained. She drew back and patted his face, and he had a sneaking suspicion that a smudge of dirt now joined any oil smears left on his face. She looked appreciatively at Steve, raising her eyebrows exaggeratedly and folding her arms over her floral shirt.

“And who do we have here?” She said wryly, and Bucky felt something loosen in his chest when Steve ducked his head and blushed.

“Ma, this is Steve, he’s in town for a while. Roped him into helpin’ out with the fence,” Bucky grinned; Sam was right, watching people squirm under scrutiny was *loads* of fun.

“Please to meet you, ma’am,” Steve murmured, extending his arm and doing his best not to stumble when Winnifred pulled him into a tight hug.

“That’s Winnie to you, ‘ma’am’ makes me sound old,” She smiled warmly. Before Steve could object, Bucky whipped his knapsack from his shoulders.

“Listen, Ma, Steve’s got some laundry –”

“Bucky!”

“Aw shurrup Steve, she won’t mind –”

“No she most certainly _won’t_ mind, not if it means my fence gets painted in double time!” Winnifried snatched Steve’s pack to her chest and linked her arm through his to lead him up the wooden porch steps, making it clear she wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Now Steve darlin’, you’re just in time, I’m just about to put a load in the washer – did Bucky tell you this house was built by my grandfather?”

“No ma’am – I mean, Winnie –”

“Well, he moved here from Belfast with nothin’ but the shirt on his back…”

Bucky watched Steve follow his Ma dutifully into the house, and felt warmth pool in his chest. He could feel a soppy smile spread across his face, and he shook his head to get a hold of himself while he headed to the old shed across the garden. He pulled out old tins of white paint and brushes and set up, and Steve joined him shortly.

“I did warn ya,” Bucky snorted at the slightly flummoxed expression on his face.

“Now I know where you get it from,” Steve mused as he helped himself to a paintbrush and the open paint tin.

“Get what from?” Bucky asked innocently; Steve just snickered in reply.

They set to work on the fence, carefully avoiding the bursting beds of flowers that lined the garden. They chatted about everything and nothing, about politics, the possibility of man landing on the moon, about music, and just as Bucky circled his fingers around his eyes as glasses to give his best Buddy Holly impression and sent Steve laughing, they realised they’d finished the whole yard.

“Just as well, it’s hittin’ evenin’ time,” Bucky thought aloud. “C’mon, we’ll treat ourselves to a few well-deserved beers, huh?”

“You don’t have to do that Buck, your mom already did my laundry,” Steve said, pushing past his clothes that Winnifred had hung out to dry an hour before; they hadn’t even noticed her, they’d been so focused on one another.

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” Bucky shrugged as they reached the porch, sinking into the tall swinging seat and reaching for a couple of bottles buried in the little cooler beside it. “Like I say, we deserve it.” Stevecaught the beer he tossed him, and perched beside him.

They sat in an easy silence, looking over their day’s work and letting the warm air wash over them; it brought scents from across the yard, sweet hints of the multitude of Winnifred’s flowers, freshly turned earth, the tang of paint. Bucky felt Steve slowly ease back and settle into the seat beside him, and Bucky planted his foot to swing the chair idly. He looked over and watched Steve’s face; he was lost in thought, eyes not seeing in front of him, mind far away. His brows pinched together on the bridge of his nose, and he was as still as a statue.

“I can practically hear you think, pal. Everythin’ alright?” Bucky asked. Steve glanced at him and away again, focusing on the neck of his beer.

“Yeah….yeah. M’fine, Bucky.” He said quietly. He picked at the label a little before Bucky shifted closer to face him.

“A problem shared is a problem halved. Somethin’s eatin’ away at you Steve, has been since you turned up here. I’ve gota feelin’ that your broken down bike ain’t nothin’ to do with it.” Bucky said gently. Steve kept his gaze locked on his fingers as they slowly unpeeled his beer label, before he crumpled it in his fist and looked up. His eyes were impossibly blue, creased in the corners while his mouth twisted, trying to figure out how to put everything into words. Bucky gave him time, until Steve looked back down at his bottle.

“This is the nicest day I’ve had in a while,” he said finally. He huffed a self-depreciating laugh and relaxed a little. “Sorry, that was kinda lame.”

“Might be lame, but it don’t mean it ain’t true, pal.” Bucky said softly. A smile flitted across Steve’s lips, gone as quick as it came, and Bucky wanted to brush his fingers across them, if only it would bring it back.

“It’s just… It kept me busy, is all. Mind and body. Been a while since I’ve been able to do that. Block everything out, y’know? Felt like I actually did some work that was worthwhile. That did some good.” Steve stumbled over his words to let them out, and Bucky softened.

“Don’t think like that, you’re a Captain – you’re bound to have done something worthwhile at one point or another,” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, when Steve barked a harsh laugh.

“Yeah, killing people. And ordering _others_ to kill people. As soon as the war ended and I didn’t have to do that, I ended up teaching _how_ to kill people.” He muttered. Bucky stayed quiet. He could sense the walls Steve had built around himself were starting to crack, and a few minutes passed before the levy finally broke and Steve spoke in a low voiced tinged with anger and regret.

“You know how old I was when I signed up? I was 17. As soon as Pearl Harbour was announced on the news I scrambled to the nearest enlistment office and signed my life away. I was this skinny weed of a kid, and thought I could make a difference. Built myself up in basic training. I literally grew up in base camps, learning how to fight and shoot. Got shipped out just after my 18th birthday, rose through the ranks on account of…some awful things. Things no kid has any right seeing. No human.” Steve gave a hard shake of his head and caught Bucky’s eye. Bucky swallowed with a click, their beers forgotten and warming in their hands as evening fell rapidly.

“Do you know what I’ve been telling myself all these years, Bucky?” Steve said quietly. “That the army made me. That fighting for my country, and shooting, and _war_ was the making of me. It was all I knew for years, and I told myself I fucking _loved_ it. Then as soon as it was over, before I could even gather my thoughts or shrug off the war, they shipped me to Fort Bragg instead of Brooklyn to train new recruits. I’ve been there since 1948. I never left the war behind. The army was my life. And I never went back to Brooklyn. I wrote home, grabbed the once a year phonecall with my Ma, told her I’d come home at some point…but I never felt ready. I was fucking terrified I never would be.” Steve faltered on those last words, and Bucky felt his heart clench as they reached the root of the matter. He draped his arm casually across the back of the swing, facing Steve fully as he took a deep breath to carry on.

“She begged me not to go. She begged me, Bucky. And I went anyway. Felt like I had to – hell, I’d probably have been conscripted anyway. But I didn’t have to stay at Fort Bragg afterwards. I kept putting it off, and putting it off…and I won’t ever get to see her again.” Steve said wetly. A lump formed in Bucky’s throat as Steve sniffed and wiped his eye with the back of his hand. He looked Bucky square in the eye and huffed a desperately sad little chuckle. “And now I don’t know what to do with myself. They signed me off with compassionate leave. I’ve made it indefinite. I don’t have the war. I don’t have the army. Now I don’t have my Ma. I’m 33 and I’m fuckin’ _lost_. I dunno how I’m gonna start over, or where I should go. And I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do. What am I gonna do, Bucky?”

Bucky didn’t think about his actions, just grabbed Steve’s shoulders and pulled him into a fierce embrace, clutching the back of his head as he felt his heart break. Steve snaked his arms around Bucky’s waist and held on as though it was for dear life, and shuddered as he held deep, wracking sobs back in his throat.

“S’ok, pal. I’ve got you. You’re okay,” Bucky soothed quietly. He should feel a little silly, he realised; he was holding this huge, impossibly beautiful man practically in his lap, like he was calming a crying toddler. He ignored that deep-seated slight at himself, running his hand down the back of Steve’s sandy hair slowly; his emotions always ran just under the surface, quick to cry, to anger, to bubble with laughter, but he suspected Steve stood at the opposite end of the spectrum. Like he bottled it all up, pushing any untoward feeling or thought that wasn’t ‘manly’ back and back until it became toxic and exploded in an unstoppable rush. With that thought, Bucky held him tighter and gripped the back of Steve’s neck, whose breath was hot where he was burrowed into Bucky’s shoulder.

Slowly, eventually, Steve’s shoulders stopped shaking, his breath evened out, and he sat back awkwardly. Bucky patted his arm once, his own grey eyes slightly red rimmed. Steve out a loud sigh and gave a weak grin.

“Well…” He said stiltedly, and Bucky snickered despite himself.

“Think y’needed that one, pal.” He said in a quiet voice. Steve nodded grimly, seemed to remember the beer in his hand, and drained the bottle in four long pulls. He smacked his lips and leaned back into the porch swing; Bucky tried not to notice how his arm was now trapped between Steve’s neck and the back of the seat, so without moving it he wrangled another two twist tops and passed one to Steve.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way,” Bucky began after a moment, feeling naked under Steve’s suddenly suspicious eye. “But if you ask me? You _definitely_ needed that. The beer too.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest – no doubt to try to put himself down again, say something else that would be self-flagellating as though he deserved it – so Bucky held his bottle up to hush him.

“Now hold on, hear me out. I know a thing or two about losin’ a parent. It ain’t easy. It’s the fuckin’ worst. You feel so lost, for so long. Y’don’t know whether you’re comin’ or goin’. Sometimes you feel like you don’t even know the day of the week.” Bucky said earnestly. Steve looked pensive but stayed quiet, so he carried on. “You feel some sense of….responsibility. Like you could’ve done more. Should’ve been around more. Could’ve stopped it. But here’s the thing, Steve…it gets better. I promise. The days pass quicker ‘n’ it gets easier to get along with things. You’re gonna have shitty days – Christ, you’ll have days that suck so bad you wanna do nothin’ but sleep. But those days get fewer ‘n’ far between. Life goes on, as they say – and it does. It will. As long as you fuckin’ let yourself feel how you really feel. This?” Bucky gestured between them with wide eyes.

“This is what happens when y’don’t let it all out every so often. Feelin’ sad? Let yourself feel sad. Angry? Be angry. If you don’t fuckin’…I dunno, stop keepin’ it all hidden away in your head, it’s gonna eat away at you from the inside out.” Steve had finished yet another bottle while Bucky had talked, and Bucky passed him another, stopping only to drain half his own beer before continuing. “Enough of the ‘what I should do’ shit – you don’t have to do anything. Unless you _want_ to. Do what you want for once! You spent a lifetime takin’ orders, so cut loose for a little while. It don’t matter if you feel like you’ve got no direction any more, Steve. My Dad always said sometimes it’s good to be a little lost, that way you find things you never knew you were lookin’ for.”

Steve’s face morphed into a genuine, startling smile. Bucky felt loose and guessed all the heat and no dinner was working wonders with his beer, and he felt a little brave: he slipped his arm around Steve properly, pulling him into his ribs for a sideways hug.

“I guess you’re right, Bucky. Thanks.” Steve said quietly after a moment with a little sigh. “All of…all of this has kinda been working away at me.”

“Told you, eats you from the inside out.” Bucky said lazily. After a full day of labour, a heaviness crept into his limbs that he knew had nothing to do with beer and everything to do with being downright exhausted. “Don’t let it eat away at you, Steve. You’re too pretty for that.”

Steve laughed loudly, surprising them both into a little fit of giggles. They settled down into another comfortable, sweet silence, and Bucky felt a thrill jolt through him as Steve snuggled into him properly. Bucky could feel his lids drooping in the warm evening, the dimming pink and purple sky disappearing behind curtains of black everytime his eyelids tried to slip closed. To try to keep awake, he shifted his foot flat on the porch and started to swing the seat gently again. Instead the steady, slow rocking of the swinging chair lulled them both into a gentle, drifting sleep.

 

*****

Bucky felt a tickle on his face and tried to brush the offending bug away. Instead of a mosquito though, it was hair. Sandy, soft hair that smelled like lavender soap and fresh earth and the musk of a hard days work. He opened a bleary eye to see that he and Steve had sunk deeper onto the long porch seat; Bucky was half lying on it with his foot still resting on the wooden landing, and Steve was laid out flat across the seat and Bucky’s chest, his head tucked just under Bucky’s chin and his arm curled around his middle. His Ma must have come out at some point in the evening, as they were covered with a multi-coloured squishy woollen blanket, which rose and fell with Steve’s deep heavy breathing.

Bucky ducked his head to look at him: all traces of his earlier anguish and sorrow were wiped from his face, and it was smooth, relaxed, _beautiful_. Thick eyelashes rested on his high cheekbones, and his soft lips were parted slightly in his deep sleep. Bucky let his head fall back, and felt sleep claiming. All he could think as he fell back under, was how he never wanted this moment to end; how he wanted the whole world to just be the back yard, with nothing but the flowers, the crickets, the stars, and Steve.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the song we got the chapter title from, "In The Still Of The Night" by The Five Satins, has been following Wintress and I around since we started working on this chapter, and we feel it fits the end tones PERFECTLY. Don't believe us? Go back and listen to it while you read! 
> 
> Also Winnifred Barnes is 1950s America's answer to Molly Weasley and we will not be persuaded otherwise.
> 
> As usual, if you have any questions, comments or concerns, feel free to contact me!


	5. "All Shook Up"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware of the time this story is set in, and the language and viewpoints contained herein. Tags have been updated so please read them before proceeding if you think this chapter isn't for you. As always, I encourage you to try to read it anyway because it'll all be worth it.

_August 27th, 1959_

 

_Hey Steve,_

_Your last letter made me laugh out loud. Literally snorted milkshake everywhere. Nat threw a cherry at my head and got whipped cream in my hair. In my HAIR Steve!! A tragedy. Not as tragic as you talkin about moving to Alaska – up there with the snow and the cold and shit? You wouldn’t last five minutes pal. You’re a Brooklyn baby, New York winters ain’t got shit on the cold they’ve got!_ _I totally_ ~~ _sympithi_~~ ~~_simpa_~~ _get you on the painting front though. I gotta say, paintin goes a whole lot faster when I’m with you. It’s a fact. That day at my Ma’s flew by. Wish you could be here when I’ve gotta paint and seal the house for the winter though, that’s gonna be a long week for sure._

 _I’m hoping this doesn’t come across as too_ ~~ _gooey_~~ ~~_mushy_~~ ~~_lovy dov_~~ _forward...but I’m really missing you pal. It’s too quiet around here without you takin up space in the autoshop or shit talking me with Sam._ _That night with Rumlow still plays on my mind, yknow? Not cos of him, he’s a deadbeat asshole, but...yknow. Everything else. Kinda felt like that was really when it felt like you belonged here with us._ ~~ _With me_~~

_Anyway pal, I hope this ain’t too quick, I mean I replied as soon as I got it but don’t feel like you gotta reply right away, yknow? Not all of us are livin it up in the big city with you. Wish I was though._

_I miss you_

 

_Bucky_

 

*******

 

“Right, that’s it Steve, no more helpin’. You help anymore and I’ll be outta business!”

“Well, maybe _you_ shoulda been clearer about which wrench you wanted!”

Bucky laughed and threw his oily rag at Steve, who narrowly dodged it landing on his face. “Well pardon me Cap for not dumbin’ down the finer points of motor mechanics for ya. Next time I’ll bring one of Becca’s kid’s picture books, maybe that’ll help.”

The rag was swiftly balled up and applied to the back of Bucky’s head to the tune of Steve’s mock-indignant chuckling. “Laugh it up big man, I’d like to see _you_ field strip a Springfield ‘03!”

Bucky stuck his tongue out, and Steve tried to quash the shiver it sent through him. “Jokes on you pal, my dad taught me how to strip his guns when I was a kid!” He sent Steve a wink before turning back to his work under the hood of the powder-blue Buick.

Steve fidgeted in his seat, in desperate need of a distraction. “Well, why don’t you teach me some stuff while I’m here and then I’ll be able to help you out? I want to do _something_ , you’ve done so much for me already man, I want to give something back.”

“Steve, the only thing I need you to do is to sit there and look pretty.” Turning away right after flashing his million dollar smile, Bucky missed the glazed look of arousal that flashed across Steve’s face at that. In the days since Steve found himself stranded in the town of Willow Creek, he and Bucky had become firm friends, and had fallen along with Sam and the others as part of the fabric of the town. People called hello to him in the street and asked how he was and would he mind painting their fence because he made _such_ a good job of Winnie Barnes’ place. Steve nodded politely, thanked them for their kind words, and promised he’d be round at theirs first thing and no, he absolutely would _not_ take payment for his services.

Physically he’d settled right in, but mentally was another matter.

He had been so sure his heart would stop skipping a beat every time Bucky flashed him his toothy grin, but as the days passed the feelings grew harder to ignore and now here he was, at the beginning of his third week in town with a still-busted bike and a crush that just wouldn’t quit. Steve told himself that he should just stay away, stay in his room at Zola’s and avoid Bucky until he was leaving, but every day his feet would carry him down the stairs and out the door and he’d be at Bucky’s garage before he knew what he was doing.

On this particular day Steve had managed to put off going over to Bucky’s for the whole morning and most of the afternoon. They’d made plans to meet up with the gang for drinks and bar snacks at Quills, so Steve told himself he’d meet Bucky there. I would _not_ go over to Buck’s early, no he would not.

Three hours earlier than their planned meet-up time, Steve was sitting on a toolbox in Bucky’s shop. They’d whiled away the time discussing Bucky’s various projects and making fun of Steve’s complete ignorance of everything related to car maintenance. Bikes? Sure, he could weld with the best of them, but put a car in front of him and he was the epitome of the Dumb Blonde stereotype. The day slid into early evening, when Bucky suggested putting on the radio to get themselves ready for a fun night. Steve wasn’t too sure what Bucky meant, but like everything else that had happened to him since he found himself in this tiny town he let Bucky take the lead, just happy to be caught in the eddy of his current.

The tinny tone of the radio warbled into life, Bobby Hamilton’s dulcet tones filling the air, and Bucky turned to Steve with that grin spreading across his face. His hips started swaying as his fingers clicked along with the music, and Steve felt his temperature start to rise, the heat spreading upwards from his chest. He sent up a silent prayer for the still-balmy evening weather, fully intending to blame any blushes on the heat of the day rather than the heat of the moment.

“I love this song, man. _‘I got crazy eyes for yooooou...’_ ,” he crooned, ‘ _Oh, yes, my darling dear_

 _Indeed, indeed, I do’.”_ Bucky swivelled his hips and spun in a tight circle, and Steve’s mouth dropped open the tiniest bit. “Come dance, Steve. Bet you’ve got some moves.”

“Oh no no, sorry Buck. I don’t dance,” Steve raised his hands as if to ward Bucky and his rolling body off, shaking his head. “I got two left feet and no rhythm.”

Bucky scoffed and raised an eyebrow. “Nah, I ain’t buyin’ it. And who cares if you can’t dance? Don’t mean you can’t have fun.” He suddenly began windmilling his arms and kicking his feet, earning him a bark of laughter from Steve. “See! As long as you’re havin’ fun, that’s all that matters!”

Steve wasn’t sure which he preferred; Bucky’s slow gyrations, or the smile he had when he was being goofy. Both made his head feel like a spinning top, and he wanted nothing more than to pull Bucky close and rock their hips together. The twin yokes of poor self-confidence and fear of rejection were too heavy though, and he simply silently shook his head again. Bucky answered with a snort, letting his arms flop to his sides.

“C’mon Steve, cut loose for five minutes!” Bucky seized Steve’s hands and tugged him off the toolbox before he could react, guiding his arms in a slow impression of the Twist. “You’ve been sayin’ how much you wish you could just relax and let things go. Take this as your first step! Just go with the flow.” Steve could have pulled away, he could’ve refused, but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t when he felt like he was on fire the second Bucky touched him. They swivelled their arms and hips slowly to the rhythm, and Steve found himself warming to the idea of dancing with Bucky. This level of contact seemed...bearable; close, but not _too_ close.

_I've got those crazy eyes for you..._

_Sometimes, you make, make me feel good..._

Like lightning, Bucky moved so fast that Steve barely registered what was happening, but with one sharp tug from Bucky Steve’s hand was grabbing Bucky’s hip and Bucky’s hand was on Steve’s arm, and they were swaying together like Fred and Ginger, close enough the Steve could taste the cigarettes on Bucky’s breath. Noticing their other hands clasped together, Steve tightened his grip lest his sweaty palms separate them, and Bucky squeezed back, setting butterflies loose in Steve’s stomach that he almost dared to believe meant something.

Bucky smiled, wide and cheeky. “See? It’s not so bad, is it.” He pushed his hip into Steve’s to nudge him into a slow turn, shoes shuffling quietly on the dusty floor, small clouds kicking up to surround their feet.

_But I love you every second,_

_I love you every minute,_

_Every hour, hour, hour,_

_Of the day..._

The soft scrape of denim sent shivers down Steve’s thighs and up his spine, and he tried to lick his lips but his mouth was bone dry. He tried to return Bucky’s smile but he knew it was weak, and the last thing he wanted was Bucky thinking he was angry or annoyed at him, so he just tried to keep his face straight and concentrated on staring at Bucky’s instead. To Steve, it was perfect. He wanted to kiss every last inch, from his hairline to the cleft in his chin. There was a tiny droplet of sweat working its way down Bucky’s temple and Steve desperately wanted to lick it off, lick _everywhere_ that Bucky would let him. Instinctively he leaned in, pressing their chests together, and the smile fell from Bucky’s face. Steve could feel Bucky’s breath quicken against his chest as he started to close the gap between them...

“Hey guys, you two lovebirds ready to head to Quills? I can come back in five minutes if you want?”

The two men sprang apart like they’d been stung, gasping for breath with bright red faces. Bucky was the one who snapped back to reality first, striding forward with a laugh and punching Sam on the shoulder. “That’s enough o’ that, man! You know I ain’t no two-pump chump!” He turned back to Steve, who had just about managed to get his breathing back to normal. Bucky’s gaze was pleading, begging Steve to just go along with Sam’s ribbing and to not be scared or offended. “We ready, Steve?”

This time Bucky needed Steve’s fake smile, and Steve didn’t let him down. “Sure am, pal. Lead the way!”

 

*******

Nat and Cliff were already propping up the bar when the three men finally staggered laughing into Quills, having been held up a few times by Sam and Bucky’s play fighting turning into full-on wrestling, with Steve as a reluctant referee. He was trying his hardest to play along, act cheerful and happy, but inside he was shaken to his core. He had been _so close_ to kissing Bucky, and he was fairly certain Bucky was about to let him. Sure it was frustrating that they’d been interrupted, but he wasn’t annoyed at Sam; he was worried. Worried because _what if it hadn’t been Sam?_ Anyone could have walked by and seen them, how could he be so _stupid?_ Not just in case he got in trouble, but what if _Bucky_ got in trouble? Steve wasn’t from round here, he’d be leaving eventually so he could pretend it all never happened. Bucky though, Bucky’s entire life was this town. Even if the authorities didn’t get involved, it’d still be all over the town in hours and Bucky’s reputation would be trashed. It could destroy his business, his livelihood, his _life_. That was a lot of guilt for one man to bear.

Just as they were taking their seats, a shout came from somewhere behind the back of the bar.

“Peter? Peter?! Peter Quill I swear to god, if I come out there and you’re asleep again...” A beautiful and clearly angry woman with smooth, nut-brown skin popped her head out from the doorway, and Quill’s face lit up as he stretched out his arms towards the woman.

“Heeeeey baby! There’s my girl, come gimme some sugar.” He hooked his arm around the woman’s shoulders, pulling her towards the group at the bar. “Steve, I’d like you to meet my lovely lady, Gamora. She’s the Lucy to my Desi, the Marilyn to my Joe” Quill gave her a firm kiss on the cheek and beamed from ear to ear while Gamora rolled her eyes and shook her head, but the tiny smile that tugged at the corner of her lips told Steve that while she might not outwardly show it, she loved Quill and all his eccentricities. Steve had to shake his head to himself to assure himself he was actually seeing what he thought he was; here was a couple, a genuinely _happy_ couple, who stood to lose much more than just their reputations or livelihood if the wrong person reported them to the authorities. Steve had to worry about he or Bucky being branded mentally ill and potentially being arrested, but more and more ‘sodomy’ convictions were being overturned and thrown out of court; Quill and Gamora could end up _criminals_. The shock must have been showing on his face more plainly than he realised because Bucky nudged him in the ribs and whispered “I’ll explain later,” perhaps leaning in a little closer than strictly necessary to allow his lips to catch against the shell of Steve’s ear. His jaw dropped open a fraction further.

Thankfully Gamora seemed oblivious to Steve’s impolite gaping, instead looking up at Quill with one eyebrow raised. “You do realise Marilyn and Joe got divorced, right?”

Quill waved his hand dismissively. “Details, details. We’ve still got Lucy and Desi, right?”

“Yeah, you’ll always have Lucy and Desi, man,” Sam piped up, “Until they get cancelled, anyway!”

The peals of laughter that followed Sam’s comment soothed Steve a little bit, and when Bucky turned to smile at him with a chuckle, he felt himself smile. This time it was genuine.

 

*******

The longer he sat listening to stories of the groups various escapades, Steve was reminded of the first time Bucky had taken him to Quill’s. There had been such camaraderie, such easy friendship that Steve had found what Bucky had said about the harder types, the ones who made trouble for Sam and Gamora, not so much hard to believe but hard to imagine. Sure, he’d only been in town for just over a week so he hadn’t exactly met everyone, but he thought surely they would have raised their ugly heads at least once by now. Unfortunately, Steve’s thoughts turned out to be eerily prescient.

It was a common trope in the old Westerns Steve used to watch that when someone walked into a saloon, the doors swung shut and all conversation stopped as every eye turned to see who the newcomer with the heavy footsteps was. He would have continued to think it was just that, a movie device, had it not happened before his very eyes; Quill’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened in the middle of a sentence, prompting the others to swivel in their seats. Nat drew in a deep, hissing breath and sat up ramrod straight. Even Cliff, so laid-back he was practically horizontal, growled quietly when he turned slightly to roam his eagle eye over the figures that had just come through the door. Steve looked over at the four men, attention snapping back as he caught the look on Bucky’s face out of the corner of his eye; jaw clamped shut, cheek muscle twitching, eyes hardened and flinty. Without a word being spoken Steve knew these were the guys Bucky had warned him about, and he knew how wrong he’d been. Three were clad in muddy jeans and hunting camouflage, the fourth in Greaser leathers complete with dark sunglasses despite the fact he was indoors. Smirking and flipping a matchstick between his teeth the apparent leader sauntered up to the bar, the others smacking gum and bringing up the rear as people turned back to their drinks and conversations.

Bucky’s voice was in his ear again, but this time it was low and quiet, and Steve didn’t miss the slight tremor in it, turning to take in his creased brow and flaring nostrils. “That’s Rumlow, he runs the hunting goods store. Asshole with a capital A. The toadies are Rolling, Pierce and Stark. They’re pretty harmless alone but in a group they’re nothin’ but grief. Just ignore ‘em, Steve.”

Steve could see his friends, still keeping a wary eye on the newcomers in sidelong glances, but he didn’t take his eyes from Bucky. Not until a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder and pulled, slowly turning Steve’s barstool until he was looking up into a stubbly sneering face with features that just screamed “I’m a huge asshole”. Features that Steve’s knuckles were suddenly itching to rearrange.

“Well, what do we have here? Is this the new goody two-shoes what’s been makin’ a name for himself all over town?” He grinned at Steve with a mouthful of yellowed teeth, and there was no mistaking it; this was not a friendly smile, or a welcoming smile. This was a threatened animal baring its teeth to a predator, making itself seem larger than it was to compensate. Steve wasn’t about to rise to the bait and answered the challenge with a smile of his own, relaxed and amiable.

“You got a name, blondie?”

Quill piped up before Steve could reply, “Hey, Rumlow. Why don’t you and your boys just sit down and -”

“Hey, I’m not talkin’ to you, Quill. I’m talkin’ to Little Boy Blue-Eyes here.”

There was an audible intake of breath around the room, punctuated by sniggering from Rumlow’s gum-chewing stooges. The only one not joining in was the Greaser, the roll of his eyes unmistakable even behind his dark glasses, and the snort of laughter was out of Steve’s nose before he could hold it back.

The gum smacking stopped. Nosy onlookers were suddenly fascinated by the contents of their glasses. Quill was frantically whispering, “Baby no, just leave it, he’s not worth it,” his knuckles white on Gamora’s shoulder.

“What’s so funny?” Rumlow stepped closer, crowding against Steve’s chest. The smell of musty leather and cheap cologne was practically chemical warfare, but Steve sat firm, refusing to be pushed against the backrest of the stool. His expression was still benign as he shook his head, shrugging.

“Brock, man, I told you. No more fighting or you’re barred aga – okaaaaay guys, cool it, alright?” Quill had barely taken two steps towards the bar hatch before the camouflaged cronies formed a wall, forcing him back behind the bar.

Rumlow jabbed a thick, nicotine-stained finger into Quills face, voice rising “And I told YOU to shut up, Quill! This doesn’t concern you,” He swivelled and jabbed the digit into Steve’s chest. “This is between me and the little soldier boy,” He poked Steve again, punctuating every word as he spat into his face, “What’s. So. _Funny._ _Punk_?”

Creaking leather behind him told Steve that Bucky was leaning towards him, his voice a quiet mumble that Steve couldn’t hear clearly, but he knew better than to turn his back on Rumlow to hear Bucky better. He’d never quailed in front of a bully in his life but exposing yourself to a gang of them was just asking for trouble. Rumlow wasn’t looking at him anymore though; he was staring over his shoulder at Bucky, and Steve did _not_ like the twisted smile on his lips. He sucked his teeth and took a few steps back towards his buddies. “You should listen to your buddy here. He made smart-mouth comments and look where it got him? Ain’t that right, Back-door Barnes?”

“BUCK, NO!”

In that moment, time seemed to slow. Sam was out of his seat and grabbing Bucky by the arm before Bucky could take a step, Clint and Nat jumping in front. Quill pushed Gamora behind him and stepped up to the two goons at the bar. Steve was on his feet and pressed against Rumlow, and the door rattled on its hinges as the last of the spectators came to their senses and left. He had several inches on the man, but Steve knew better than to assume Rumlow would go down easily. He’d dealt with his kind before, and doubted this would be the last time; they sank their teeth in and went down swinging, taking as many innocent bystanders with them as possible. He tried to fight the wave of revulsion that rolled through his stomach and the way his heart was hammering; Steve hated bigots, hated that they thought they truly represented the people of the country he’d fought so hard to protect, the _right_ people, when they couldn’t be more wrong. Right now though, he wasn’t just seeing red because Rumlow was being a homophobic asshole. He was up in arms because he’d disrespected _Bucky_. The knot of fury in his gut and the cramp in his knuckles told him to ram his fist as far down Rumlow’s throat as he could, but common sense screamed at him to remember that this town...this town was bigger than just Bucky, and this town had given Steve so much in the short time he’d been here that to give that up, to throw that back in all those faces by lowering himself to the levels of the town degenerates? It wasn’t Steve. It wasn’t what he’d been brought up to do. _Be the bigger man_ , his ma had always said, and her voice carried through the years to sound in his mind, clear as a bell. With gritted teeth and a deep breath, he turned away from Rumlow completely, not caring if he was attacked from behind. He just wanted to make sure Bucky was ok…

“Yeah that’s what I thought. At least he’s better than Quill, right boys? Better a fag than a n-”

_*WHAM*_

All rational thought gone Steve let his fist fly, and it flew straight and true into Rumlow’s nose. He didn’t hear the scream of pain or feel the crunch of bone and cartilage; only the fury.

Blood splattered on the wooden floor as Rumlow reeled back, clutching his face. For a brief second Steve dared hope he would take his posse and leave, but apparently it wasn’t to be. Bellowing like an enraged bull, Rumlow surged forward to catch Steve around the waist, propelling them both into the tables behind Bucky and the others in a hail of broken glass and spilled beer. His head knocked hard against the floor just as he took a shot to the stomach, and Steve tasted bile in the back of his throat. Winded and bleary-eyed, he raised his fists just in time to protect himself from the worst of the other man’s raining blows, trying to catch his breath, but as quickly as they’d went down the weight was gone, borne by Clint to be slammed into the brass bar railing before being pummelled by he and Sam.

Steve rose coughing to his knees, vaguely aware of Bucky barrelling past him to bash one of the underlings across the jaw just as Gamora vaulted the bar to land on the other, Quill’s pleas to not destroy the furniture landing on deaf ears. The greaser guy was nowhere to be seen, obviously opting to cut his losses and leave the bigger guys to it. Whatever, there was still more of Bucky’s friends than there was Rumlow’s, who were all holding their own from what Steve could see, but no sooner had he reached his feet than Bucky was being knocked off his by a strike across the face. Enraged, Steve was across the room and kicking the guy in the back of the knee before he realised his heartbeat was pounding so loud he couldn’t even hear the commotion around him. He could see it though, and even though they had numbers on their side he didn’t want these slack-jawed neanderthals in the bar a minute longer than necessary. With sunglasses gone, there could already be a chance that he was on his way back with reinforcements.

_They need to get out of here. We need to get them out of here._

“Nat, get the door!” Clint pulled Brock into a rough headlock, allowing Steve to hook his fingers into Rumlow’s collar and with Quill holding his wrists tight behind his back, they bodily dragged the stumbling man to the swinging doors.

“You’re banned for good this time, Brock! And I’m sending you a bill for my furniture, asshole!”

 

*******

Clutching their ribs and trying to keep the groaning to a minimum Steve and Bucky hobbled along, arms around each other, up the silent road to Zola’s, pausing occasionally for Bucky to rest his aching ankle. The street light’s orange glow made the bruise flowering on Bucky’s cheekbone turn a queasy orange that made Steve’s knuckles itch. Sure, they’d come out on top of the fight but Steve was already miserable with guilt for starting the brawl that had got Bucky hurt. It seemed like every time he took one step forward towards Bucky, he took two steps back and just made things worse than ever. It was high time he resigned himself to the fact that he needed to leave sooner rather than later. Better that than causing even more upheaval that would just make Bucky’s life harder, especially once Steve was gone. He had no doubts that Brock and his gang of miscreants would jump at the chance to get their own back the second Steve’s tail-light disappeared into the horizon.

Their shoulders jostled as Steve made to guide them to cross the road to the right at the same time as Bucky continued walking straight ahead, earning Steve a stab of pain in his ribs and a rumbling curse from Bucky.

“You feelin’ a bit punch-drunk there, Stevie? Where’d you think you were goin’?”

“Uh, towards your place? Where else would I be walkin’ you?”

Bucky’s laugh turned into a moan of pain, but he was still grinning through it when he looked at Steve. “Mister Steve Rodgers, I will have you know I ain’t that kind of girl! You gotta at least buy me dinner first.”

He gawped, “Wha-! I-that-I didn’t mean...oh, fuck you, man!” before giving him a gentle shove to the shoulder. Why did his insides feel like they were burning in that split second?

“What I _meant_ was I’m walking you home. I want to make sure you’re home and ok, it’s the least I can do after...”

It may have been the blow to the head, but Steve thought Bucky actually sounded _angry_ when he interrupted him. “After what? After you punched out the town asshole for callin’ people you barely know names? After I _voluntarily_ joined in on a fight that started cos you were stickin’ up for me? Yeah that’d be a fine way to say thank you, Steve.” Bucky bit down on his bottom lip and stared at the ground. “Now don’t get me wrong, Sam and Nat and the guys, they stick up for me plenty when Brock and his mob start shit, and I love them for it,” he scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground, brows furrowed, “but ain’t nobody ever thrown a punch for me before.” He huffed a small, empty laugh that sounded hollow, and Steve’s skin suddenly felt two sizes too small. Bucky looked too vulnerable, too fragile. He saw now that while Bucky wasn’t angry, he _was_ emotional and clearly struggling to verbalise it. Steve could sympathise; the past few days he’d felt so overwhelmed that he thought he might combust at the tiniest provocation which, he realised, was probably what had happened in the bar. He didn’t mean to start a fight, had fully intended to be the bigger person but Christ, he couldn’t let that fucker say those things. He’d seen enough ugliness in the world and finally felt like he’d found of the few beautiful things left and he’d be damned if he’d let another meat-headed cretin ruin it.

Bucky stared at Steve as if daring him to argue, jaw set and eyes steely. “So, no way Steve. I ain’t leavin’ till I see you through that front door. Honestly man, you wanna make sure I’m ok? Then do as I ask Steve. Please.”

Struggling to think of the right words, Steve decided actions spoke louder than words and just hitched his arm under Bucky’s again, pulling the weight off his injured ankle to continue their slow hike to Zola’s.

 

*******

All the lights were off in the big red brick building when the two men finally reached the gate, Bucky shrugging off Steve’s arm before sagging against the wall. Steve wasn’t quite ready for the night to end yet. They’d been pressed so close to each other back at the autoshop, and then Buck had murmured in that gravelly against Steve’s ear so clearly intentionally that Steve desperately wanted how he was feeling to be real and reciprocated. That they’d been balanced on a precipice _together_ and there might a chance that they might tip over it _together_ , no matter how slight a chance it may be. He groped for a conversation topic. Something, _anything_ , to keep Bucky near him for just a few minutes more.

“So, uuh...you said you’d explain about Quill and Gamora. What’s the deal there?”

Bucky sucked his teeth for a second before he spoke. “Well, what did it look like to you?”

“It kinda looked to me like they’re an item. Ain’t that pretty much what Quill said too?”

“And you probably noticed the bar was pretty quiet when he said that, right?”

Steve thought back; there had been quite a few other patrons in the bar but they’d been way over at the other end of the room paying little to no attention to the group or their conversation. He nodded his agreement with Bucky’s point.

“Yeah, well that’s pretty much what the deal with Quill and Gamora is. They know who they can be open around and who they can’t, and they know the consequences of the wrong person finding out. I mean sure, this is a pretty damn accepting town. Where else would Sam and Gamora even be allowed to _sit_ with us in a bar?” Crossing his arms across his chest, Bucky’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “But it’s still America, and the law’s still the law. So, we gotta be happy for small mercies. The townfolk will only put up with so much, so we still gotta hide everything else.” He chewed the inside of his cheek, and Steve was almost certain he heard Bucky mutter “ _Know how THAT feels..._ ”

“Christ. If I’d realised it was so complicated I woulda kept my big trap shut, Buck. I shoulda just bit my lip, everything was fine and would’ve probably stayed fine if I hadn’t hauled off on the guy, then-”

Bucky interrupted Steve by rolling his eyes and groaning, “Ah jeeze man, you ain’t gonna start apologising again, are you? I already told you I don’t blame you.”

“But it’s _true,_ Buck!” Steve was practically shouting now, the taut wire of his temper that had been under more and more strain with every passing day since his mom’s death _finally_ snapping. “You’ve done _so_ much for me, more than anyone except my Ma has done in my life, and I’ve barely known you five minutes! And this is what it gets you? Me going off on the local assholes and causing trouble for you? Sorry, _more_ trouble? Cos don’t think I didn’t catch what he said. Sounded to me like you’ve been in his sights a long time, Bucky.”

Shrugging, Bucky just continued in the same placid tone, which only served to irritate Steve further. He wanted Bucky to be angry, as angry as himself, because to Steve people should _always_ be angered by people like Rumlow and his mob and their behaviour. The way Steve saw it, complacency only gave them the impression that their views were somehow acceptable instead of prehistoric and contemptible.

“And so what if I have? You’re right about one thing; you’ve barely been here five minutes but I’ve lived here my entire life, Steve. I’ve been dealin’ with the Brock Rumlows of this world for a long time now. This wasn’t the first time and it sure as shit wont be the last. If you’re so concerned about me then why’d you do it if you knew it’d start shit for me?”

Ok Steve was definitely shouting now, wide-eyed and near incoherent with frustration. “Because I don’t want you to get hurt, Bucky! Because you’re too fucking good for all that. You’re too kind and generous, and smart and fucking _beautiful_ for those animals to tou-”

Steve nearly bit his tongue as Bucky suddenly grabbed his face in both of his hands, panting “ _Jesus_ Steve, do you ever shut up?” before crushing their lips together. Stiffening, Steve’s reflexive return of the kiss was chaste at first; shock blanked his senses, deadened his nerves till he could only act on instinct. His hands flew to Bucky’s hands as if to pull them away, but as his fingers closed around Bucky’s wrists and his fingertip felt the hammering pulse through the thin skin underneath, he was suddenly gripping them tight instead to keep himself upright.

Sweet. Bucky’s lips were sweet. And soft; easily the softest and most delicate things Steve had ever touched in his life, a contrast to the raspy two-day stubble that was scratching Steve’s chin raw. Not that he cared, or even noticed. His mind was too full of the taste of Bucky’ mouth and the taste of his tongue, the sound of the tiny sighs that ghosted across Steve’s cheek. He moaned into Bucky’s mouth but was too gone to be embarrassed, concentrating only on their fervidly twisting tongues. No sooner had Steve slid his hands down Bucky’s arms and onto his waist to tighten his fingers in the fabric of his shirt though, than Bucky was pulling back, pecking Steve one last time with a woozy smile and unfocused eyes. Steve just stared at him, his eyes heavy-lidded and jaw hanging open, still somewhere high above the rustling trees and dusty earth.

Bucky chucked quietly, “Wow, if I’d known that’d work so well I’d have tried to shut you up a week ago.” He pulled Steve in for another peck, even gentler this time, before stepping back and smoothing down the front of Steve’s shirt and jacket. “You go ice that hand. Can’t have a scumbag like Rumlow messing up your paintin’ hand.” With a last soft smile and a wave, he crossed the road and stood watching and Steve stumbled up the garden path to the shiny black door of the boarding house, and Steve didn’t see Bucky do a little jig as he walked down the street towards his own home.

Pulling back the latch Steve closed the front door as quietly as possible, holding his breath until he’d slid the last bolt into place. It came out in a long heavy sigh and faded into a quiet, pleased hum as he turned to lean against the door. His chest felt so much less constricted than it had in days. Weeks. _Months_ , if he was being honest with himself.

A flash of light lanced through the dark hallway, jerking Steve from his reverie. It was still pitch black, save for two circles of glass flashing in the moonlight from the doors window. “Good evening, Herr Rodgers. I think we have much to talk about.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, we're SO sorry this chapter is so late! Surfaces has been ill for quite a while and has just been discharged from the hospital, so hopefully that means she's on the mend and we'll be back to updating a bit more often!
> 
> Secondly, you'll notice that Wintress finally has her own AO3 account where she'll hopefully be uploading more of her work so I urge you to go show her some love!!
> 
> As usual, if you have any questions, comments or concerns, feel free to contact us!


	6. "Everybody Loves a Lover"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always read the tags, but this chapter definitely comes under "Fluffy fluff fluff" for once!

_My dearest Buck,_

_Man I had the weirdest dream about Zola the other night, I swear I nearly called you at 4am to check that he wasn’t actually performing weird experiments on me in the middle of the night! As nice as it would’ve been to hear your voice, I’m not sure you’d appreciate me interrupting your beauty sleep._

_That reminds me, I think it might be time to finally lay Molly to rest. The past couple days she kept spluttering like she was running on empty, and last night she just...I think she just died. I know I should call the guys to come confirm it but it just seems wrong. Like it should be you doing it, know what I mean? I don’t want strangers pawing all over her, not when it was you that brought her back and got me and her home in the first place. One thing’s for sure, there’ll never be another bike like her!_

_Speaking of strong women, give my love to your ma, yeah? I know you’re probably already rolling your eyes punk, but tell her thanks again and sorry again. Please? For me? She really went above and beyond and I really miss her. Almost as much as I miss my own ma!_

 

_Nearly as much as I miss you, Buck._

 

_Yours,_

_Steve x_

 

*******

 

“Two dollars, thirty cents.” The voice dragged Bucky up from where he was lost in his thoughts, thick as molasses and just as sweet. He blinked stupidly a couple of times before he registered where he was standing in a trickle of self-awareness: _the gas station. At the cash register. And you’re holdin’ up the line, asshole._ He shook his head a little to clear his thoughts and grinned at the young man behind the counter, who was eyeing him with a lazily raised brow and a nervous twist on his lips.

“Sorry Tony, was miles away -” Bucky began, but Tony just nodded abruptly and dropped his gaze.

“Sure. Whatever. Two dollars thirty, Barnes.” He muttered. Bucky’s brows furrowed a little in annoyance at his sharpness, but handed over his money all the same. Tony practically stabbed the cash register with his fingers to open it with a shrill ring before tossing his change over. Bucky scooped up his jerrycan and left with a nod, slightly confused over the whole exchange. Stark was well known for being a smart-ass, mostly bordering on annoying with constant jokes and needling quips, but he was rarely out-and-out rude to people. As he stepped out into the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds and made to close the door to the station behind him with his foot, a little jolt and ache coursed up his leg, reminding him of the bruises that littered his body from the quick scuffle from the night before.

Ah, he thought. Last night. Tony had been rolling with Rumlow’s lot recently, and the greaser had made himself scarce as soon as it all kicked off. Of course, the fight had been so quick he could barely remember, it had all passed in a blur of fists and strangled yells – but he could still feel the warmth of Steve’s arms around him, the taste of beer on those soft lips –

“Hey Barnes! Wait up!” Bucky could have groaned in frustration when he turned to see Tony slipping out of the gas station in a bluster, pulling his leather jacket on and fishing a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket. He rolled his shoulders, trying to affect a casual air. “Got a light?”

“Sure. But you didn’t just run outta work to ask me for a match, Stark. What’s up?” Bucky asked warily, pulling a battered, half-empty box of matches from his back pocket of his overalls.

“Why not, huh?” Stark shrugged. He caught Bucky’s sceptical gaze on him and rolled his eyes, cupped his hand to light his smoke and inhaled deeply, shaking the match out. “Alright, you got me. Talked Jarvis into taking my break early. Walk with me?” Tony didn’t wait for an answer, striding ahead without looking for oncoming traffic, hands shoved deep in his Levis and shoulders rolling with his trademark practiced swagger. Bucky let himself groan this time. He scrubbed his face and trudged after him, hoisting the jerrycan to the crook of his elbow. Sometimes the guy sounded more like a big-shot CEO instead of a lowly gasmonkey, and had the act down pat too. Bucky still wasn’t sure he liked him, especially after his recent associations with Rumlow.

He caught up with Tony right before Sam’s general store, where a wooden bench had been erected dedicated to a local teacher under a shady tree. The clouds were gathering so they definitely didn’t need the shade, but Tony dropped to the bench with a creak and a huff, cigarette hanging from his lips as he smoothed his hair back. Bucky joined him, adjusting his stained overalls to sit comfortably. He went to open his mouth to speak, but Tony instantly held a hand up to shush him. A little wave of irritation swept over Bucky; this guy was in serious danger of harshing his buzz.

“I gotta say something to you.” Tony said quietly, not meeting Bucky’s eyes and choosing to cast his gaze over Peggy’s Florist across the street. “I don’t like Rumlow any more than you do. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m number one on his shitlist for bailing last night. I don’t agree with what he says, the crap he preaches. I don’t agree with it at all. We’ve known Quill and Gamora since we were kids – they deserve better than that. So does Sam. I know Rumlow and his merry band of assholes are the ones who’ve been egging his store like they’re twelve or somethin’. They don’t deserve the shit they get.” Tony paused to pull sunglasses out of another of his many pockets and placed them primly on his face. Bucky thought it was a hilariously fastidious gesture considering the whole ‘bit-part-James-Dean’ thing he tried so hard with, and he fought back a snicker, letting him continue.

“Steve seems like a real nice guy too. What went down…it, well, it just shouldn’t’ve happened. I regret getting involved with those pricks in the first place. I guess I just wanted to say…I’ve got your back. All of you.”

“Really? I think we handled it well when you were makin’ dust clouds in the distance, Stark,” Bucky smirked. Tony rolled his head back on his shoulders to face Bucky, a raised eyebrow peeping above the rim of his shades. Bucky knew he was too proud to come out with it straight; he’d known the guy long enough to read what was unsaid between the lines. Might as well offer him an olive branch. “Apology accepted, Tony. Don’t think it’s me who deserves it more, though. Quill’s tonight?”

Tony’s shoulders visibly dropped whatever tension he’d been wired with, and a carefully constructed curl of his lips drew them up in a sneer. He placed his cigarette between his teeth and grunted, spreading his arms across the back of the bench. “Huh. Maybe.” Bucky could tell this was more of the ‘don’t give a damn’ air Stark affected to hide what he really meant, so he played along and shrugged as he stood up.

“See you then. Maybe.” He said over his shoulder, leaving Stark sprawled across the bench.

The clouds slowly continued to gather and the heat rose as Bucky made his way across town. He felt like he was boiling alive inside the heavy overalls, but he wouldn’t slip his arms out and tie the top around his waist, not in the middle of town. He whistled to himself, nodding hello at neighbors and storekeepers alike as he ambled through the main street of Willow Creek, memories of last night breaking through without meaning to. He knew he was glowing; he knew he looked ridiculous and chirpy with a spring on his step and a goofy smile that he couldn’t help spread across his face. He knew he looked like one smitten kitten…and he didn’t care.

Bucky had harboured many a crush over the years. Most of the time, they were unrequited and he toughed them out till they passed. Sometimes, the affection was returned and they could steal some kisses or steamy stolen moments before the novelty of travelling towns over for eachother passed and they parted on good terms. He wasn’t particularly worried about finding the one: he remembered Becca crying because she was sure she would die alone and old and never find true love like in the fairy tales. He remembered sighing dramatically as she sobbed on her patchwork quilt as he pulled her in for a tight hug and promised that he’d beat up anyone who dared show up on the front step without a suit of armour and a crown, and tickled her until she kicked him off the bed laughing. Bucky on the other hand, had long since accepted that since he didn’t want to compromise who he really was and hide behind a façade of chaste kisses and a fake ring, that he would probably be on his own. He’d been happy with the decision when he’d come to terms with it and talked it through with his Ma (who was ridiculously forward thinking and understanding, bless her heart), and he’d accepted his fate – until _Steve_.

Steve had pulled up into his life and shattered any previous resignations he’d had about the future. More often than not, these days he’d find himself daydreaming while working away about the tall blond who’d turned his life upside down with nothing but a torn backpack and a busted bike. Instead of focusing on the task at hand he’d think on the way Steve’s lips would curl up in a soft smile when he was listening to someone talk, how if the sun caught him at just the right angle his sandy hair would gleam with golden strands shot throughout, how if you caught him unawares with something funny he would splutter and throw his head back in laughter.

It was worse when Steve hung around the garage with him. Bucky was more than competent in his work, but he’d fumble with tools that he’d been handling since he was old enough to change a bike chain, or he’d catch himself staring at Steve without meaning to and realise he had been over-tightening a bolt and stripped it completely so it spun uselessly in his wrench. On one memorable occasion, Steve had helped Bucky drag in an order of tyres and both of them were sweating buckets by the end. All he’d done was lift the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face, but Bucky’s eyes had raked across his muscled stomach and the sharp V of his hips and imagined what it would feel like to drag his fingernails down them to –

And he’d dropped the last of the heavy tyres on his foot with a strangled yelp.

No, Steve hadn’t just shattered his previous plans of toughing it out alone. He’d done something worse: he’d given him a glimpse of a future he couldn’t possibly have. And to make matters worse Bucky was encouraging this impossible situation by pretending his motorcycle wasn’t as fucked up as it really was, finding ‘new’ things wrong with it as the days went by and having to wait a few days for parts to arrive, fixing it up, then ‘discovering’ something else that needed replaced. In truth, Steve’s bike was an actual wreck of epic proportions, and Bucky had been horrified that the Frankenstein’s Monster of a Harley hadn’t blown up on Steve before. He felt his gut twist a little in guilt while he reminded himself of this deception as he rounded the corner and started to climb the hill to his autoshop. He’d have to come clean sooner or later. He couldn’t keep lying just to keep Steve here.

Bucky adjusted the jerrycan where it swung from his arm and rifled through his pockets for his keeps. His hands were sweating from the climbing temperature and slid around various nuts and bolts, a rogue pencil stub and what felt like a half-empty pack of gum, but eventually he hooked his finger around his keys and twirled them while he wandered up to the rusted red door at the corner of the building, only to jump out of his skin when he found someone was already waiting there.

“S-Steve!” He yelped, grabbing the can just before he dropped it. He huffed a laugh, clutching his chest dramatically. “Hoo, boy you nearly gave me a heart attack! Give a guy a little warning before you –” Bucky stopped himself short, taking in Steve’s appearance properly. The blond’s huge shoulders were slumped miserably, his torn (and hastily mended by Bucky) backpack hanging from one arm while the other was wrapped around his middle. His hair, which was usually carefully styled and swept with military precision, was mussed and ruffled up one side of his head with a leaf stuck out the side. It was the expression on Steve’s face which broke Bucky’s heart though – he looked wrecked. Utterly devastated. Bucky’s mind shot back to how he looked the night they’d spent on his Ma’s porch swing, and despite the bruise blooming beneath the surface of his cheek courtesy of Rumlow, Steve looked exactly the same: wrung out, emotional, desperately sad.

“Steve?” Bucky asked softly, reaching out for him. “What’s goin’ on, pal?”

“I- I, uh, slept here last night,” Steve’s voice was gravelly as he gestured to a flattened patch of earth. The early morning sun filtered through the tall oaks that ringed Bucky’s autoshop, weak through the clouds, and cast a strange golden-grey tinge across Steve’s dishevelled figure. “Look, I’m sorry to just turn up like this –”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get you inside, get you cleaned up, then we can talk, huh?” Bucky unlocked his door in record time and hooked his free arm around Steve’s waist, ushering him in gently. He dumped the can with an echoing clang and flicked the radio on as he passed it. Steve sat heavily on his usual chair by the work bench while Bucky pushed the heavy doors open, wrinkling his nose at the rush of heat that blew into the cool garage. He reached into the cooler for two bottles of lukewarm soda, passing one to Steve, who took it without drinking. He stared off into the dusty concrete flooring, and Bucky could feel himself starting to get worried.

“Come on pal, talk to me. What happened?” He probed gently. Steve looked up at him then, dazed.

“Last night,” He said finally. Bucky felt a stab of panic in his chest – did he regret it? Was Steve packed because Bucky had pushed too far? It had felt mutual, beautiful, like a long anticipated levy had broken – but was he the reason Steve was sat in a stupor?

“Yeah?” Bucky replied thickly.

“Zola saw. He kicked me out.” Steve said, misery flashing across his face again. “I don’t have anywhere to go now. He saw us, Bucky – I’m so sorry.”

“Wait…you’re sorry?” Bucky managed. He couldn’t help but grin. That was all? “Steve, you don’t gotta worry. It’s Zola, for Christ sake. No one takes that old crony seriously.  And why did you sleep here, you dummy?! You know you could have slept on the couch or somethin’ at mine!”

“What?”

“Listen, I told you before – everyone thinks he’s a joke. He goes on and on about how the government are monitorin’ him because he does weird, shitty science experiments in his basement.” Laughter bubbled from Bucky and he slapped his leg. “Jeez, like they’re gonna care what he does with old car radios and industrial cans of bakin’ soda! Steve…Steve, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about darlin’, his word means shit in this town – I can promise you that.” His face burned when he realised what he’d called Steve, but all the same a sweet smile broke out across the blond’s face.

“Uh…yeah, about that. I might have…um…threatened him.” Steve said meekly.

“You threatened him.” Bucky was incredulous. This was too good. Steve was still drawn in, like he was trying to disappear, but his face had smoothed over. Keep talkin’, Bucky thought to himself. Bring him outta it.

“Well…he told me he’d been watching from the window and saw us necking and that he wouldn’t stand for ‘someone like me’ under his roof.” Steve squirmed in his seat and Bucky bit his lip to keep his face straight. “So I packed my things. And I might have reminded him that he’s just thrown out a captain of the US army – and I _might_ have insinuated that I was really there to monitor him and what he’s been doin’…thank god for those acting classes when I was a kid.”

“What _has_ he been doin’?”

“I got no idea pal!” Steve snorted, and they shared a little laugh. “No clue what so ever! The threat was obviously enough, he went chalk white and started sputtering and yelling about how he’d been right all this time!” He choked out, laughing.

When he caught his breath back, Bucky swept his hand through his hair and held the glass bottle up to his face to try to cool it down; the humidity was becoming unbearable.

“So…are you really an undercover agent?” Bucky asked with a cocked brow. “Because I gotta tell you Steve, if you are you’re the worst one I’ve ever met.”

“How many FBI agents _have_ you met, Buck?” Steve asked innocently.

“Can’t say I know many – I know none of them are anything like you though,” He said honestly, sharing a smile with Steve. “Look, don’t worry about Zola, alright? He ain’t a problem.”

“Maybe not, my problem is finding somewhere to stay until the Harley’s back on the road.” Steve sighed, the mirth slipping from his face. “I couldn’t ask you to put me up – not when we’ve already risked getting found out for…y’know, whatever this is.” He gestured between them with his soda.

“Oh, ‘this’? We’re a ‘this’ now? Be still, my beatin’ heart! We got a regular Prince Charmin’ here!” Bucky grinned, secretly thrilled that Steve could acknowledge what he was feeling too. “Still not a problem though. Sure, staying at mine might be a bit too obvious – but my Ma’s is pretty much an open house.”

“What? Buck – no, I couldn’t –“

“Don’t start that, Ma loves you. She’d have you in a heart beat.” Bucky said honestly. “We just explain what’s goin’ on, she wouldn’t mind. Besides, I won’t have you makin’ camp outside my garage, not if I can help it. Honestly Steve, I think she’d just be happy for someone to eat her home cookin’ every day.”

“Don’t you have dinner at her house most days anyway?” Steve asked glibly.

“…Yeah, okay. Someone _else_ to fatten up. Don’t worry, alright? We’ve got this.” Bucky hoped he sounded as sincere as he felt. Steve gave him another one of those soft smiles and ducked his head. “Are you alright?”

Steve paused before he replied with a little nod. “Yeah, I am. I just don’t wanna make life difficult for you. If people started talking… I’ve seen guys run out of town for less than rumors before.”

“You think Zola’s the only one they don’t take seriously? They don’t pay me no mind. Whatever I do out of the shop is my business, and I keep it that way. No one cares as much as you think they do, this ain’t the big city, we value our townsfolk. Zola won’t talk, and people won’t care if he does.”  Bucky said with a wink. “Now, if you don’t mind some of us have work to do on the world’s worst bike. Turn up the radio – I ain’t payin’ you to sit and look pretty, Rogers.”

“You don’t pay me at all, Bucky!”

 

*******

The weather finally broke that afternoon, after Bucky had replaced a brake fluid line in Steve’s bike and had returned Angie Martinelli’s coupé safe and sound. Steve had stopped asking what was next to be repaired days ago, and seemed content to hang out around the garage and shoot the shit with him. Occasionally he’d brush past Bucky, fingertips glancing across his back or his shoulder bumping his gently. It never failed to instil a tiny thrill in his gut, and spread a secret smile across their faces. Today Bucky’s stomach had been twisting up a storm for another reason entirely; Steve’s bike was finished. And he felt ashamed at how reluctant he was to tell him.

A huge rumble of thunder rolled overhead and a blinding flash of lightning made the two men jump in the Martinelli’s driveway, and rain started to fall in a warm torrent. They ran back through the town and veered into the tree-lined street that led to the Barnes’ old house before stopping for breath against the huge willow outside.

“How are you so out of breath?! I thought you were in the Army?” Bucky wheezed. Water dripped from his dark hair, where it had fallen out of its usual casual sweep and was a mop of sodden curls on top of his head. Steve was practically bent double and leaning heavily on his knees, and Bucky noticed with a gulp that his white t-shirt was soaked through and almost see-through. Almost. Despite the rain, the air was still heavy and humid, like a warm wet blanket. Beads of sweat mingled with the rain on his lips and he swiped them away with a sweep of his tongue just as Steve looked up through his lashes. Bucky shrugged out of the top half of his overalls and tied the arms off at his hips, leaning back against the willow while he tried to catch his breath.

“I’m a little out of practice is all,” Steve managed, standing up and stretching with a smirk. Bucky shook his head and bit his lip. “Besides, can’t say any of my drills included running through the rain with a drop-dead gorgeous mechanic…”

“You little shit,” Bucky shot back.

“What?” Steve protested. “I’m not doing anything!” He stepped into Bucky’s space, crowding him against the tree and boxing him in with his arms on either side of his head.

“You know exactly what you’re doin’.” Bucky growled. He rested his hands on Steve’s hips, the heat radiating through his wet shirt.

“Maybe,” Steve grinned wickedly. He dropped his head and pulled Bucky into a searing, heavy kiss. Their lips moved together in a slow, languid beat, and Bucky groaned softly when Steve ran his hands through his wet curls and cupped the back of his head.

The rain beat down harder, drumming on the soft earth and the sweet scent of petrichor rose in the hot air around them. A group of tiny birds scattered from the tree branches above them, releasing a heavy smattering of warm water over the two men kissing below. They broke apart with a gasp and a self-conscious smatter of laughter. Bucky pressed one more kiss to Steve’s lips before nudging his shoulder.

“Come on, punk.” He pulled Steve close to follow behind him, snatched his backpack before he could complain, and wandered inside with him.

Bucky knew he didn’t have to worry about his Ma. He’d told her about preferring men in a mess of tears, snot, and nervously twisted handkerchiefs one night after he’d turned down Peggy Carter for prom. Instead of casting him out and disowning him like he thought she’d do, Winnifred Barnes had simply led him through to the kitchen, parked him in front of the sink armed with a scrubber and dirty dishes, and told him that nothing would stop her from loving him – “Now finish your chores and maybe I’ll let you have an extra slice of pie for dessert, hm?” Bucky had ugly cried with happiness until he’d finished washing up.

After being fussed over and warned they’d catch their death of cold, Steve had hovered anxiously by the kitchen door while Bucky explained about Zola kicking him out. Winnie listened quietly throughout, and when Bucky finished she nodded and handed Bucky the giant basket of clothes she had been folding methodically.

“First of all, Zola’s an old hack. He can go to hell for all I care. Second of all, Steve, honey, you’re more’n welcome here. Anytime. I mean it. Finally – no neckin’ in my spare room, I had enough of washing James’ sheets when he was a teen and I ain’t gonna start that mess again –”

“ _Ma_!” Bucky protested furiously, and Steve snickered at the blush quickly turning his face red.

“You don’t have to worry about that Mrs. Barnes, thank you. Thank you so much –”

“I told you before honey, it’s Winnie. You want me to start callin’ you Captain?” She raised an eyebrow in an expression that was scarily like Bucky’s before folding her arms across her apron. “Now go on you two, make up the bed and I’ll see you down here for pot roast in fifteen minutes. Make sure you wash up first, y’hear?”

Bucky managed to keep his face straight until they’d climbed the stairs and made it half-way down the floral papered hall.

“So…can I call you Captain at least?” He laughed when Steve swatted his arm.

“I knew you were gonna have something to say about that, you jerk.”

They made up the spare bed together. Bucky reached into the old chest of drawers for a clean tshirt to change into, and tossed Steve a spare, trying not to ogle him as he changed. Bucky felt his chest swell at how domestic it all felt, and tried not to let his mind wander about doing things like this with Steve in the future. He had just flung the window open to let the late afternoon air in when he felt warm hands on his hips, and before he could protest Steve had whirled him around and drew him into another deep kiss.

“Boys? Dinner!” Winnie’s voice calling from the bottom of the stair case drew them apart before long. Bucky rested his forehead against Steve’s, and he sighed with a smile.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get a little privacy here, huh? Can’t even kiss his best guy in peace.” Bucky mumbled. Steve kissed his nose and started to walk off.

“Well, you heard your Ma – wouldn’t want her to have to wash your dirty sheets after, would you?” Steve jibed. Bucky’s breath caught in his throat at the myriad of images that flew through his mind before he could clamp them down and follow Steve down the hall.

“I don’t care how innocent you act Rogers – you’re a real pill,” He hissed while Steve laughed over his shoulder.

Dinner was blissful for Bucky. He sat with the oldest and newest people of his life on either side of him, listened to them chatter and joke and tell stories between mouthfuls of his Ma’s famous pot roast. He was warm, safe, and happy, and that little feeling of comfort and domesticity, which he’d never really had since he’d left home, had ballooned between his ribs whenever he looked at Steve. He really thought he’d burst by the time Winnie pushed a second slice of cherry pie onto their plates, whether it was from those feelings of belonging and comfort or the food. It felt right with Steve, even though it had been such a short period of time.

“Oh hey, guess who I ran into today?” Bucky said as they piled dishes into the sink to wash up. “Tony Stark. Well, I say ran into – he ran after me when I was pickin’ up gas for the Martinelli’s.”

“Who?”  

“Y’know, the greaser guy? Came in with Rumlow and his pals, ran off as soon as it all kicked off?”

“Aw, the guy with the big sideburns?” Steve said, bumping Bucky out of the way with his hip so he could start drying the dishes Bucky had washed.

“Yeah, anyway. He apologised, I invited him to Quill’s tonight. Feelin’ up for it?”

“Sure, why not – I kinda owe Quill and Gamora an apology  myself –“

“Don’t you start Rogers, we went over that last night!” Bucky smirked.

“Hmm… Did we? I can’t remember,” Steve played dumb, drying his hands. Bucky dropped a plate he’d been scrubbing with a splash and pulled Steve to him, drawing him into a kiss. He hummed contentedly and went to cup Steve’s jaw when the blond jumped and squirmed.

“Buck! Your hands are soaking!” Steve yelped, breaking the kiss.

“Tell me you’re comin’ to the bar and I’ll leave you alone!” Bucky laughed, trying to slip his cold wet hand up Steve’s shirt before he twisted away.

“Fine, I’m going, I’m going!” Steve laughed.

 

*******

When they’d finally changed and rolled up to Quill’s, Tony was already outside smoking. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Bucky and Steve approach and stubbed out his cigarette.

“Hey Stark, nice to see you show up,” Bucky said. “You just get here?”

“I might have been here a few minutes. Maybe ten. Okay, half an hour. I _am_  goin’ inside though. At some point.” Tony said dismissively. Bucky rolled his eyes; his nervous ticks were obvious, tapping his foot rhythmically against the dirt path, thrusting his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

“Stark, this is Steve. Steve, Stark.” Bucky introduced them. Steve smiled and nodded, Tony gave a sharp jerk of his chin in acknowledgement. “Now come on, you can come in with us.” He hooked his arm around Tony’s shoulder and dragged him inside. A burst of music greeted them, the night already in full swing. The old regulars in the corner booths ignored them, and their friends at the bar turned and shouted greetings while they parked themselves at the bar.

“Hey guys! The usual?” Quill whipped around and started pouring beers, and Gamora leaned over the bar to study Steve’s face.

“Steve – your cheek! And Bucky, your lip’s all split! How are you feelin’ after last night?” She asked. Bucky shrugged, catching Steve’s eye and grinning.

“All better now. I was worth it to see Rumlow get his ass kicked!”

“We’re fine, Gamora. Listen, I shouldn’t have started –” Steve began but was cut off with Gamora pointing her finger at his face.

“If you’re gonna apologise, save it and buy me a drink instead. No harm done…kind of.” She shoved off the bar to serve Clint at the opposite end, who was busying himself with getting another perfect score on the dart board. Sam sidled up to them, and Bucky felt Tony physically shrink down beside him.

“Hey fellas, mind if I borrow Stark here for a moment?” Sam said casually, clapping a hand firmly on Tony’s shoulders.

“Go ahead,” Bucky said. Tony stood up slowly and let himself be steered toward the door.

“Won’t be a minute. We gotta discuss eggs.” Sam said mysteriously, the door closing behind him.. Nat wandered over, obviously bored with watching Clint win game after game of darts, and perched on the stool next to Steve.

“He’s not going to beat him up, is he?” Steve asked.

“Nah, Sam’s fair. He’ll just chew him out for a while – least he deserves.” Bucky said.

“Stark’s an asshole, but he’s not downright awful like Rumlow.” Nat shrugged, leaning on the bar. “So did you two kiss your boo-boos all better, or am I mistaking the sexual tension for somethin’ else?” Steve choked on his beer and Bucky patted his back laughing.

“Yup, we made out like teenagers outside Zola’s and he threw Steve out for bein’ a ragin’ queer,” Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve almost dropped his beer.

“Yeah, sure you did.” Nat snorted. “How’s the bike comin’ along, huh? Bet you’re eager to get on the road Steve.” Bucky felt that guilty twist in his stomach at the mention of the bike; he hadn’t told anyone he had been drawing out the repairs to keep Steve in town, but Nat was practically a human lie detector, and she eyed him warily while he tried to sip his beer casually.

“It’s going great – we replaced the brake lines today, and I think there’s a coupé other things to get done,” Steve said. Nat nodded, catching Bucky’s eye knowingly.

“It’s takin’ a while, huh?”

“Yeah, I don’t mind though. I like it here. I’m not in any rush to get home, I can assure you.” Steve said, his face falling. A muffled yell and a thump from outside made Bucky whip his head toward the door.

“I’m gonna follow Sam just to be sure Tony doesn’t accidentally talk him into punchin’ that fuckin’ motormouth of his.” Bucky smiled and left Steve sat at the bar. After a few moments silence, Nat spoke up.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She asked. Steve spun his beer around and shrugged.

“Just thinking. Going home is kind of the last thing I want to do,” He replied honestly.

“Hey, do what you’ve got to do, when you’re ready to.” Nat patted his hand. “Whatever’s waitin’ for you back home..I get the impression it ain’t exactly a huge welcome home party. I kinda know what that’s like. If you wanna talk, come find me at the diner. Any time. I don’t sleep all that great, and our apartment is out back. Okay?”

“Thanks Nat,” Steve smiled. She nodded and left him alone to rejoin Clint, just as Bucky and Sam barged back inside with a meek-looking Tony under their arms.

“All sorted?” Steve asked as Bucky jumped to the stool beside him. Bucky grinned, nudging Steve’s shoulder.

“Air’s all cleared, we’re on the same page, yadda yadda yadda. Main thing is Sam didn’t punch him. Want another?” Bucky gestured to Steve’s almost empty bottle.

“Sure. Why not.” He mumbled in reply.

 

*******

Winnie was already in bed by the time they’d made it home. Steve had been quiet for the rest of the night, and didn’t say a word on the walk home. Instead of going inside first, they crept around the side of the house to relax on the back porch. Steve looped his arm over Bucky’s shoulders and drew him close, and Bucky planted his foot to swing the chair gently. The rain had eased off, and the clouds turned the evening sky into a murky swirl of inky purple while they sat in a comfortable, warm silence. Bucky burrowed deeper into Steve’s side, and brought his hand up to trace lazy circles on Steve’s palm.

“Thanks Bucky,” Steve said quietly, with a contended huff of breath. “Seriously. You’ve done so much for me since I got here – these past few weeks…” He trailed off, and Bucky pulled him closer.

“Ain’t but a thing,” Bucky mumbled. He needed to confess to Steve, before it went any further; the spark of anxiety he’d felt earlier after Nat’s comment on the bike had only grown and spread its tendrils through his body. He hated lying. He hated keeping secrets. Steve deserved the truth. “Listen, I gotta tell you somethin’. Now don’t panic!” Steve had pulled away slightly and tensed up, so Bucky drew his legs up to shuffle closer. “It’s nothin’ bad…I don’t think.”

Steve said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“Look…I’ve kinda been pullin’ the wool over your eyes for the past few weeks. It wasn’t meant to go this far – I didn’t mean to for it to carry on this long, I was just…bein’ selfish. I guess. I wanted to keep you around for a little while longer, y’know?”

“Bucky, it’s fine.” Steve rolled his eyes indulgently, but Bucky could see his shoulders were still drawn up. He sighed and ran a hand through his tangled curls.

“Your bike. It’s fixed, pal.” He let out finally. The swirl of guilt he’d been carrying for the past few weeks, which had been tightening as the days went by, didn’t let up like he’d hoped it would. Steve cocked his head.

“But you were working on it today?”

“No – no, I mean, it was _fucked_. FUBAR. I’m surprised it even got you here, to be honest. I just…I kinda fluffed the details of how bad it was. Figured it’d keep you in town a little longer so I could check you out. Once your exhaust came I was gonna fix it all, I swear, but we were gettin’ on so well… and then last night happened. I mean, it’s pretty much fixed now – I’d feel better about replacing the tyres on it, but I’m worried that means you leavin’ and I ain’t never felt this way about - and I’m so fuckin’ selfish, Steve. I’m sorry. I’d rather we just got it all out there in the open – and I understand if you thought I was a creep or whatever, cause that was so shitty of me. I’m sorry.”

Steve said nothing for a while. Every second that ticked by felt like it was crawling under Bucky’s skin until the blond finally spoke.

“Yeah, it’s shitty. And it’s a little weird. But if you think for one minute I’m going to hate you over it Bucky, you’ve got another thing coming,” Steve said slowly. Bucky paused, staring at him.

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be? The past few weeks have been…god, Buck. They’ve been amazing. I don’t think I’ve laughed or cried – or gotten into as many fist fights – like this in years. And I’m getting my bike fixed on top of it all…what’s so bad about that?” Steve smiled gently, drawing Bucky close again.

“Well, apart from the shiners, I’d say not so bad at all,” Bucky agreed, cuddling in. They were quiet for a little while, no sound except the rain falling in a gentle thrum on the plants and grass and slate roof.

“I wish I could stay here forever.” Steve said hoarsely. Bucky swallowed and nodded against Steve’s shoulder. He’d been trying not to think of that, when Steve would inevitably have to leave. He wanted to be more selfish – to ask Steve to stay instead of going back to Brooklyn. Surely he’d prefer the trees and sweet air and friends he’d made here? Could Bucky really ask that of him, to abandon everything he knew, his last tether to his old life, and stay in Willow Creek with him? He knew he was falling for Steve. He’d never felt this strongly or so surely about someone and the life they could lead together.

I should tell him, Bucky thought to himself; tell him how I really feel, and maybe he’ll stay.

“Me too.” Bucky whispered back instead. Wordlessly, he stood up and pulled Steve to him, leading them quietly upstairs. They crept past Winnie’s closed door, past the spare room with the immaculately made bed, where the lace curtains billowed gently in the soft breeze that had started to undulate through the night air. Bucky led him to his old room at the end of the corridor, pausing to show Steve which floorboard to tip toe around because it sounded like a dying cat when it was stepped on. Not a single sound passed their lips, both of them too scared to break the reverie and say what beat within their chests and filled their heads and was desperate to bubble forth from their lips. Instead, Bucky pulled back his old patchwork quilt, shuffled over to let Steve squeeze in beside him, and pressed into Steve’s warm side again. Steve drew him close, so tightly he almost crushed him, before pecking a kiss into his brown curls.

“Night, Buck.” He whispered.

“Night Stevie.” Bucky didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to disturb whatever this was, in case he blurted out how he felt. He was torn between scaring Steve off and begging him to stay. The atmosphere felt heavy, not unlike the humidity that the storm destroyed early. Heavy with unspoken words and desperate actions that he practically vibrated to contain.

He couldn’t keep Steve from leaving now. He knew his bike was nearly fixed, good enough for the rest of the journey. He’d went and opened his mouth and admitted the only thing keeping him here was a ruse that had almost run its course. Maybe he’d stay? Maybe he felt the same? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Bucky forced himself to relax. He deepened his breaths and let the tension roll from his limbs while he tried to calm the whirlpool of thoughts shouting at him from his brain. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he finally felt heavy and loose enough to drift off.

Steve shifted.

Of course he wouldn’t be sleeping yet. Bucky kept still, kept loose.

“Bucky?” Steve whispered. When Bucky didn’t reply, the bed shifted as Steve slowly slipped from Bucky’s arms. He peeped his eyes open to see a darker shape in the gloom of his old bedroom ease the door open. His eyes burned as he closed them again and a tear squeezed out and ran down his nose as Steve’s soft padding footsteps disappeared down the hall.

A small squeak and a pause as he avoided the creaky floorboard.

A rustle as Steve pulled on his coat at the bottom of the staircase.

A click as he closed the front door behind him.

He was gone, out into the night.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't panic! We promised fluff and have we ever not delivered? Stay tuned, hepcats ;)
> 
> As usual, if you have any questions, comments or concerns, feel free to contact us!

**Author's Note:**

> "Why must I be-ee a teenaaaager in loooove..." oh my heart! 
> 
> This story came about thanks to Wintress' long-time craving for a 50s Bucky AU fic and our mutual love of the music of the era, so we brainstormed for a bit and this is where we ended up! Headcanons are a-go-go here, so let us know if you want to know exactly what they are, or if YOU have any headcanons you'd like to see! 
> 
> As usual, if you have any questions, comments or concerns, feel free to contact me!


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